


Make Up Your Mind

by A_Beautiful_Irony



Category: Batman (Comics), Catwoman (Comics)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, Banter, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Dance floor, Discussions of violence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Family Dynamics, Love/Hate, M for language and some explicit content, Mild Sexual Content, Press and Tabloids, Requited Love, Violence, depictions of mental illness, mentions of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2108433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Beautiful_Irony/pseuds/A_Beautiful_Irony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Selina Kyle is attending a society function when who should appear but Tall, Dark, and Brooding - or, as he is now, Bruce Wayne, Billionaire Playboy. Tensions run high as they fight to remain cavalier in a room full of dancing citizens. But when Catwoman calls Batman out, Bruce has to face the true motivations for his actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Make Up Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published Bat/Cat fic, so I hope you like it! The continuity can be placed after Hush and/or Heart of Hush.  
> Comments and critiques are welcome.

She knows his footsteps before he speaks. 

“Enjoying the artwork,” he asks, his deep voice warm, concealing an undercurrent of tension. She is standing before a glass-fronted exhibit, a large potted fern to her left, effectively blocking a quick escape. He has cornered her. She knows it to be a calculation. Selina stifles a sigh, turning to face him.

“Bruce,” she says. She leans back against the wall, her short, dark hair brushing the glass. One thin strap of the slim black evening gown slips infinitesimally lower down her shoulder. His eyes track it for a moment, then he returns his attention to her face. 

“I thought I might find you here,” he declares pleasantly.

“And yet, you still came.” 

Their eyes lock, and she focusses on the feel of the champagne glass resting in her delicate fingers. It is not easy to challenge him here, in front of all these people, without the protection of a mask. To have to be so nonchalant. As if it doesn’t sting, seeing the judgment in those sharp, blue eyes, knowing what lies behind them. 

“The Clairmonts would be vastly insulted if I didn’t attend the opening of their newest donation to the Gotham Museum,” he says pompously, all Billionaire Playboy. 

“For however long it lasts,” she smirks. His mouth thins slightly.

“Planning a liberation?” His tone is abruptly dark, almost that of his pointy-eared counterpart. She sips her drink. His transformations into the Bat are always like this, sudden and complete. It’s a bit unsettling to watch, even after all this time. 

“Nothing right now,” she purrs. True, the idea is tempting, an exhibit dedicated solely to the worship of cats in ancient Egypt – honestly, do they set themselves up for these theme-crimes on purpose? – but who really needs another gold statue of Bast? 

“I’m just admiring the workmanship.”

“And in the future?” he asks, glaring into her green gaze. Selina smiles, covering her anger with seduction. 

“Guess you’ll find out.” She saunters away from him, raising her glass in passing. She can feel his eyes on her as she walks, the cut of the dress baring the soft skin of her back, its silken fabric sliding over her thighs. She suppresses a shudder. 

There is limited conversation to be had at this particular gathering of Gotham’s elite, mostly consisting of old society matrons out for publicity, hoping to be overheard gossiping about their latest triumphs and charity projects. The few people present under the age of sixty all seem to have been guilt-tripped into accompanying Grandmamma, and all appear desperate for escape. 

Mindless flirtation aside, she never has spoken with many of these trust-fund babies. When she’s not casing the place, Selina realizes, she really only talks to Bruce at these things.

Male gazes trail her throughout the room. Selina declines to make eye contact with any of them. She attempts small talk with one of the younger women, but quickly runs out of common ground. The girl doesn’t like cats. Or history. Or architecture, or poetry, or engineering, or anything but the Atkins Diet and Paris Fashion Week. The topic quickly turns to a series of compliments on one another’s shoes, out of sheer desperation. It is almost a relief when he finally, inevitably, cuts in. 

“Ah, Beatrice. I see you’ve met Miss Kyle.” 

The girl – Beatrice – perks up like a spaniel when the most eligible bachelor on the East Coast mentions her name.

“Well, Bruce Wayne,” she says playfully, crossing her arms. “What a nice surprise.” He smiles blandly at her, nodding. Then he turns to Selina.

“Miss Kyle.”

“Mister Wayne,” she quips, a smirk in her eyes. 

“I wonder if I could have you a moment.” His face is open, conveying innocence. Only Selina hears the thread of confrontation in his words. 

“Certainly,” she says, her teeth bared in a smile. He takes her arm and moves her into the middle of the dance floor, placing his hands on her waist. She looks at him warily, holding her champagne in one hand, the other resting over his powerful bicep, not quite touching him. 

“What the hell are you doing,” she hisses. In response, he snatches up her hand in his and begins to lead her in a simple waltz. 

“What are you really doing here, Selina,” he says softly, his tone laced with iron. 

“Attending a charity function,” she whispers hotly. “One I did not know you would choose to grace with your presence, so I’m sorry if I broke one of your damned rules.”

“You know why I had to implement this protocol.” 

“Yes,” she says, her voice nearly inaudible, danger oozing into the small space between them. “You made it perfectly clear that your need to remain a lone, miserable shadow is just one of your many charming character flaws.” 

“Selina,” he warns. “I can’t work with the constant threat of—“

“I said,” she cuts him off. “You made it clear.” He flinches slightly. 

“Which brings us to our next order of business,” she continues. “You knew perfectly well I was liable to show up tonight. So why did you risk breaking your own rules? Just to see me?” 

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t fall back into the past.”

She could slap him. 

“What, I lose love, so I go back to my bad old ways,” she asks scathingly. He shrugs.

“You’ve done it before.” 

Selina scoffs. She slides her arm under his, pulling herself up onto her toes. Her lips brush his jugular as she speaks:

“You overestimate your impact on me.” 

The lie tastes foul, but feels good, sharp, maybe enough to cut him, to scratch that armor he hides behind. His eyes harden.

“It’s always best to check.”

“And is that what you’re doing? Checking up on me?” She sighs in frustration. “Bruce, I haven’t lifted a thing from a museum in two years – I’ve gone straight, remember? Converted. Just like you always wanted.” The bitterness in her statement takes him visibly aback. 

“Selina—.” 

“Let me go, Bruce.” She attempts to pull out of his grasp, but he holds her to him. She can’t risk any greater resistance without causing a scene. Still, she does not back down.

“What do you want from me,” she grinds out. “What more could you possibly get from me, you utterly self-righteous bastard?” 

He twirls her almost violently. 

“You know the importance of the Mission,” he murmurs, his voice like steel. 

“I know that you sacrifice your happiness and that of everyone around you in the name of it.” God, it hurts to look at him. 

“That is not why I ended it between us,” he says quietly.

“Right, that was out of some twisted sense of honor you manufactured special, for the occasion.”

His face contorts in something like pain. He holds her closer, whispering in her ear.

“You know what Joker could do to you – what any of them would do if they discovered the truth.”

Selina laughs severely. 

“Please, like it hasn't been hot underworld gossip from day one.”

“Gossip is one thing; hard knowledge is dangerous. We were being reckless. It had to stop.”

“Anyone who would take me on because of Batman learned a long time ago, it’s not a great idea.”

The music changes. A new song starts up as dancers shift around them. 

“Things change,” he murmurs, moving her to the new beat. “You’re too vulnerable to be seen with me.” 

“If you ever knew me at all, you know that the last thing I am is vulnerable.”

“I can’t take that chance.” 

“Isn’t that my decision?” 

He swings her away from an advancing couple, keeping their conversation as private as possible.

“You have to understand,” he continues. “This has to end.” 

“Then why are you still here,” she asks. He does not answer. “I can’t take this, Bruce,” she whispers. “I made my peace with this mess. I accepted that you would never let us be anything more than we’ve ever been. That you never wanted to see me again. I was dealing with it.” Her teeth clench. “Then you show up at that art show, and the charity auction, that stakeout in the East End, and now this. Every time I think I’ve healed a little, you appear out of the blue and tear it all to hell. If it’s over, then let it end, for god’s sake!” 

There is a long pause. Bruce seems at a loss for words. Selina goes on, more softly, trying not to choke.

“I am not your toy or your sidekick.”

“I never tried to make you a sidekick,” he huffs.

“Like hell you didn’t!” 

“Selina, don’t--.”

“No, I remember," she says darkly. "I’m the 'strongest person you've ever known’ – just not strong enough to be Batman’s equal.”

“You’re twisting my meaning.” He spins her again, and when she comes back into his arms this time, she is dangerously annoyed. 

“Fine. Then tell me why you keep using the same excuses to break it off between us.”

“My reasons are not excuses – I have explained—.”

“The real reason, Bruce.”

“It’s for your protection!”

“Oh please, it’s for yours,” she exclaims. 

A group of women by the refreshment tables are watching them intently. Bruce slows their pace, and they strain to lower their voices to a more discreet level. 

“This is what you do,” Selina says. “You’re so afraid of getting hurt, of committing to something, that you simply push anyone away who gets too close. You destroy your relationships. You self-destruct.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters. 

“Don’t I?” She stares into his face, her emerald eyes penetrating. He matches her, refusing to back down, refusing to respond. Selina exhales slowly, a wave of sorrow and shame washing over her.

“Let me go, Bruce.” She attempts to pull away from him again. His grip tightens in response.

“Not until you understand.” 

“I’m done trying to understand. Just leave me alone.” 

“Selina, goddammit, just listen to me!” 

“Let. Me. Go.”

“I am trying to protect you.”

“Now.” 

They have stopped moving. He grips her like a vice, bruising her skin in his anger. Their eyes clash, his blue and her green, raging against one another in silent battle. Selina is so livid, she could spit. The silence is electrically charged.

Without warning, his mouth is on hers, his arms crushing her against him in a desperate embrace. She gasps and his tongue slips inside her mouth. A roaring fills Selina’s ears and her face flushes, growing hot. The kiss is deep, insistent. When his hands move to the small of her back, warm, skin against skin, the world falls away. Her eyes flutter shut as the champagne glass slips from her fingers, landing with a muted crash on the parquet flooring. She returns his kiss with fervor, her soft lips caressing him, her tongue darting out to meet his in a familiar dance. She twines her fingers in his hair, securing his face more firmly to hers. His palm cups the back of her neck. 

God, how she’s missed him. He and all his stupid rules, letting fear get in the way of what they have, what they need. He fills her senses. His smell, his lips, the planes of his face, his arms, his chest. She remembers her name on his breath, whispered like a prayer in the night. And the way he would hold her, afterward, as if to shield her from all the perils of their broken, imperfect world. And the way he would let her comfort him after some terror had woken him from sleep. The sound of his cape beside her as they soar over the rooftops – the taste of his skin – the color of his eyes – the sounds he makes in his sleep. The sounds he makes during other activities. 

Wait. 

He traces her spine with his fingertips. She sighs into the kiss. 

Wait.

Moisture gathers at the corners of her eyes. 

Stop!

She pushes him away, her eyes flying open. They both gasp as, startled, he lets her fall back to her feet. Neither of them is sure when he picked her up. They struggle to regain their breath, their panting loud in the silent ballroom. For a moment, they simply stare at each other, shocked. Selina’s vision blurs and she touches a finger to her eyes, mortified to find tears there. They grow thicker as a fine haze of anger and humiliation settle in like a cloud around her. She trembles with it. 

Bruce hangs his head in shame before her. He can’t bear to look at her. 

“Selina,” he whispers, “I’m—.”

The sound of the slap echoes in the room. 

“How dare you,” she murmurs, rage making her voice oddly soft. “How dare you.” 

Bruce opens his mouth but no words form. Flashbulbs erupt in a cacophony of blinding light. Selina is not sure how many of them may have gone off while they embraced. Chatter resumes at a rapid pace, everyone talking at once, all eyes on the two figures in the middle of the ballroom. Selina leaves him there, alone with his masks and his damned walls. Cameras follow her out, men shouting questions, asking for statements. She shakes her head, waving them all away, trying very hard not to think. 

They blockade her at the doors to the museum, demanding to know the story behind the display. 

So much for not causing a scene, is all that comes to mind. 

She tries to hail a cab, but the mob is blocking her view of the street. She shields her eyes and attempts to push through them, but to no avail. She is just contemplating her acrobatic options when that damn voice appears behind her, once again.

“Miss Kyle,” Bruce says softly. The crowd of photographers quiets instantly. Selina does not turn around. 

“Let me take you home,” he continues. “I’ll call my car.”

“No. Thank you. I’ll manage.” 

“Please. I promise. I’ll only take you home.” 

Selina takes a deep breath, then looks at him. He still refuses to meet her gaze. His face is unreadable, shadowed by dark, boyish hair. He looks so… sad.  


“God, Bruce,” she whispers, coming closer. “Why do you do this?”

“I’m sorry.” She can barely hear him. “I just… can’t bear the thought of losing you. Again.”

She closes her eyes, resting her forehead against his chest. His hands twitch, fighting the urge to touch her. He breathes deeply. She exhales and they move farther away from the eager reporters. 

“Listen to me,” she says. “Whatever danger I’m in, I always will be. You were never going to change that. So stop with the tired excuses. You’re not protecting me, Bruce, you’re protecting yourself.” He is silent, so she continues. “I won’t play second fiddle. You don’t want a partner, you want a submissive. I will not be your sidekick in that life, or your plaything in this one. We’re either equals, or we’re nothing. You chose the latter. So why can’t you stick to it for once? Why do you have to keep breaking my heart like this? Make up your damn mind, Bruce!” 

“I… don’t know if I can,” he whispers. 

Selina forces the words out. They sear her throat. 

“Then I’m leaving Gotham.” She’s thought about it. She could do it. If it doesn't kill her to try. 

“So you can move on,” he says. She laughs bleakly.

“Bruce, it’s been twelve years. Don’t you think if I was able to stop loving you, I would've done it by now?” There is a long moment.

Finally, he murmurs, “Don’t leave.” 

She pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. 

“Then what are we going to do?” 

He looks at the prying eyes around him. The photographers appear to be waiting for a juicier shot, or maybe a better angle. 

“We should get out of here, first,” he says in her ear. His breath ruffles her hair and she suppresses a jolt, annoyed at the effect he still manages to have on her. She considers her options. None of them seem to allow for a very subtle exit. And she’s finally drawn more than five words out of him – he’s actually talking to her instead of at her. Selina is afraid of losing this precious edge.

“Fine,” she says, loudly enough to be heard by the crowd. “Take me home, Mr. Wayne.” 

He is all business again, the façade covering his shaken state. 

“Of course, Miss Kyle.” He does not offer his arm, and she does not reach for it. They descend the stairs together, half blinded by exuberant paparazzi. Bruce hails the valet, who scurries off to fetch his no-doubt ridiculously expensive vehicle. Selina wraps her shawl about her shoulders. 

“We’ll talk about it in the car,” he says, trying not to admire the effect of the black lace over her otherwise bare skin. 

Selina smirks, a measure of her customary cool returning. 

“Which one is it this time?”


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce drives Selina home after the disastrous charity ball. In the cramped space, they are forced to confront their demons and face the silent, unspoken wrongs in their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the interlude between Make Up Your Mind and the third installment, Stay With Me. As always, comments and critiques are greatly appreciated!

The black sports car gleams as it pulls up smoothly before them, the purr of the engine cutting off. The valet climbs out, gingerly closing the driver’s side door, and rushes over to hand Bruce the keys. He appears somewhat terrified, but his eyes are alight with the experience of driving a – well...

“The Jaguar,” Selina says sardonically. “You do that on purpose?” 

Bruce steps forward to hold the passenger door for her. 

“Freudian slip,” he says. She slides into the seat. 

“Been a while since I boosted an XKE,” she remarks. “1963 was a good year. Save for the wiring, of course.” She snickers. “You sure this thing will run?”

The sound of the engine turning over effortlessly answers her question.

“I had the electrical redone,” Bruce says. Selina gasps.

“Sacrilege!” 

“It works.” 

Bruce pulls away from the curb and onto the empty highway. Under his breath, he mutters, 

“Lucas was an idiot.” Selina shakes her head in half-hearted amusement. They fall into silence.

The interior of the car is dark and close, the only light the faint glow from the antique dashboard. In their black evening attire, Bruce and Selina are nearly invisible. Only their faces are illuminated, dimly, their features thrown into sharp relief. The effect is disorienting.

Shadow enfolds Selina like a glove, altogether too comfortable. If she lets her guard drop now… 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce murmurs beside her. Selina inhales slowly. 

“I know.”

There is another pause, the both of them trying and failing to gather their thoughts. To get up the courage to say what so desperately needs to be said. 

“Where are we going,” she asks suddenly. He glances at her, surprised.

“You said ‘home.’ I assumed you meant your apartment.” He hesitates. “Would… you like me to take you some other place?” 

For one insane moment, Selina considers telling him where, exactly, ‘home’ has been for her these last six years. 

Instead, she bites the inside of her cheek, forcing logic into the equation. It might be nice, should things go badly tonight, to be in a safe place to sleep. Or get drunk, depending. In any case, no matter how much she may wish differently, chances are this is going to suck, and at least at her place, he’ll be the one on the road at three AM. Save her thirty bucks in cab fare and a breakdown in someone’s backseat, at least. 

“My place is fine.” Selina looks out the window, inky silhouettes flashing by outside. She tries not to think about the concept of 'home'. 

For a long time, she’d never had one, not that she could remember. But she’d always thought, or maybe hoped, that she might find one someday. 

What she’s actually managed to scrounge together is almost a joke. 

When he finally let her see under the mask, gave her a name and a face – an address – to put to the fever-dream that is… was their relationship, it was like her world shifted. She’d pretty much had his identity figured out already, sure… but the moment the cowl came off, that first moment she saw his face, unguarded, open, just for her, had been the single most surprising of her life. 

Ever since then, there has been only one place. 

The Universe has a terrible sense of humor. 

“What you said back there,” he murmurs, startling her out of her reverie. “About leaving Gotham…” 

She refuses to throw him a bone. She makes him ask. Eventually, he does.

“Did you mean it?” 

“If I have to.” 

His jaw clenches.

“What is that supposed to mean?” His voice is ominous. Selina closes her eyes.

“It wasn’t supposed to be a threat, Bruce,” she says quietly. 

“But you did mean it.” 

It is suddenly hard to breathe.

“Yes,” she whispers. He nods. His hands are taut on the steering wheel, and a vein is standing out near his temple. Selina wants to smooth it away, release him from that too-familiar cage of non-emotion. He hides inside of it so often. 

“Bruce,” she says. “Look at me.” He seems to wince away from her, focusing his eyes even more fixedly on the road. 

“It’s not safe,” he mutters stiffly. “Raining.” She touches his arm, exasperated. 

“Just pull over and look at me.” He glances at her, indecision plain on his face. Slowly, he obliges her. 

The car comes to rest on the edge of the highway, blending in with the sleek black asphalt and the rain. It is like being underwater, like space. A moment out of time, the two of them locked together in this bubble in the middle of nothingness. 

But then, it always feels like that.

She turns in her seat, and he does the same, two duelers about to spar. His eyes bore into hers. 

God, she could almost kiss him – just say ‘screw it’ for one more night, pretend like it’s just sex, they’re not in danger, they’re not in love, they’re not Batman and Catwoman. 

But they can’t do that anymore. Not now.

“I just have one question,” Selina says. He looks at her levelly. 

“What do you see when you look at me?” His eyes widen, caught off guard. He inhales.

“What do you mean?” 

“Just answer the question.” He looks out the window. 

“I see a beautiful, intelligent woman who deserves better than me,” he mutters darkly. She touches his face lightly, coaxing him back to her. 

“What if I don’t want better than you?” 

He opens his mouth, closes it again. When he does speak, his voice is a harsh whisper. 

“You should.” 

She chuckles bitterly.

“Too late.” 

Upset, he reaches for her, stops, runs a hand through his hair.

“What do you see, when you look at me?” he bites out.

“Honestly?” She lets her head fall back against the headrest. “I don’t know.” He looks disappointed. She goes on, grasping at ways to put her feelings into words.  
“I see the way your eyes spark without the mask. I see your drive, your passion for life, and your dedication to the lives of others. I respect you, I respect your strength and your intelligence and your ability. 

“But Bruce… you don’t respect me. You never have.”

“I respect you,” he retorts. 

“Like hell! You treated me as more of an equal when I was wearing purple spandex and swiping jewels from your safe.”

“I recognized your potential for danger. As much as I respect your finesse as a thief – hell, you make cracking safes and weaving through lasers look like an art form – it was not so much admiration for you as a person, but rather for your skills.”

“You mean my ass,” she drawls. He flushes, with anger or guilt, she doesn’t know.

“After I’d seen the real you, as a person, it was different,” he grinds out. 

“So as soon as I stopped bobbing and twisting around little red lights, you moved on?”

“As soon as you stop twisting my words, maybe I can make you see what I’m actually saying.”

She makes a dismissive gesture.

“You have a pathological need to control people. I had power and you could see that. You didn’t respect it, you wanted to control it – to control me, just like everything in your life. And as soon as you had me under your thumb, I was just another possession.”

“Selina, just because I was no longer chasing you around rooftops does not mean that I…” he glances away, uncomfortable. “That I cared any less for you.”

“Then why is it that the only times you ever even looked at me afterward, were when I had relapsed?” 

“That’s not how it was.” 

“Oh, no? You avoided me for months, then Ivy gets me under her spell, you see I’ve started stealing again, and suddenly you give a shit.” 

“Because I knew you were better than that!” His voice is loud in the cramped space. “You’re more than a thief, Selina. I needed you to see that. I need you to see that.”

“So then what am I, Bruce? To you?” 

He grits his teeth.

“What do you want me to say, Selina?” 

Her voice is even.

“The truth.”

There is a very long silence. 

“What you are to me,” he says at last, slowly. “Is complicated.” 

Selina snorts. Well, what had she been expecting? ‘You’re the light of my life?’ ‘The reason I get up in the evening?’ Maybe just ‘a nuisance.’ 

“You’re… hard to explain," he continues. Selina's brow arches. She’d expected that one-liner to be it.

“Try,” she prompts cynically. 

“Selina,” he mutters. “What if I can’t give you a straight answer?”

“Try.” He exhales, frustrated. 

“You are… an unforeseen complication in my life. You’re unpredictable as hell, and you seem to actively attempt to drive me insane. You’re confusing, flippant, and manipulative, and you never do as I say. Your independence… is something I admire.”

Selina is shocked. She’s never once heard him speak like this, certainly never about her. 

“Golly gee, mister, I don’t know what to say,” she says a little distantly. 

“I’m not finished,” he growls. Selina’s eyebrows shoot upward, but she simply gestures for him to continue.

“You’re brilliant,” he says, shaking his head. “Yet you fall into these patterns of self-destruction –,” he glances sharply at her, quelling whatever comment she is about to make. “You’re trustworthy and loyal, and you’re a valuable asset in the Mission. And…” he stops. From his expression, he has not run out of words, per se, but has rather reached a fault in his will to continue. 

“Go ahead,” she says flatly. “I can take it.” 

“Selina…” He clenches and unclenches his fist pensively. “I’ve already told you this. You already know.” She can barely hear him now. “You are my greatest love. Perhaps the only woman who has ever truly held my heart.” 

She recognizes those words from one night in a hospital bed, long ago... He looks like he would like to say more, but cannot bring himself to. 

They lapse into silence. Selina stares at her lap. Minutes pass. Eventually, the rain begins to let up.

Wordlessly, Bruce puts the key in the ignition, and eases the car back onto the road. They reach her apartment in less than ten minutes. He parks on the street, then they sit there.

Is this it? Should she get out? Tell him to get lost? Invite him upstairs?

“Love’s a funny thing,” she murmurs at length. “It doesn’t always come with happiness.”

He shifts in his seat. She sighs. 

“Come up for a drink, would you?” 

He looks about to protest, but changes his mind. He opens the door, following her up the steps and into the elevator leading to her apartment.


	3. Stay With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions flare as things come to a head in Selina's apartment. Caught between love and fear, everything is laid on the table. But when Selina gives Bruce an ultimatum, he must decide, once and for all, how their fates will finally play out.

The ride up in the elevator is quiet. Their damp garments steam in the warm, recirculated air. 

Her front door is plain and unremarkable, opening onto a small entryway, revealing a tastefully decorated flat. A couch, a small loveseat, and two overstuffed chairs border a low glass table in the center of the room, a wall of books and CDs standing off to one side, a Tiffany lamp to the other. Bruce knows the kitchen branches off to the left, and her bedroom is down the hall, the second door on the right. He tries not to imagine the feel of the doorknob in his palm, the interior of the room, white bed, simple but large, dark wood vanity, wide window granting a view of the decaying city below. She likes to draw the curtains. 

Selina shrugs off her shawl, draping it over the large flatscreen behind her. 

“So, what’ll it be,” she quips. “Wine, scotch, or – let me guess – apple juice?” 

He grunts at her dig. She never has passed up a chance to comment on his refusal to drink alcohol before patrol. The only reason he’s had a glass tonight is because he knows Dick is back in the city, covering his shift. 

In any case, he is far from impaired, and nearly takes her up on her offer of more robust libations. But he’ll likely be driving again tonight. Alone. 

“Water is fine. Or coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.” 

“Not at all,” she says, moving toward the kitchen. 

A weird sense of domesticity falls over them as she puts the coffee pot on to heat, lifting out the beans and the grinder from an upper cabinet. She almost expects him to come up behind her and scare the shit out of her with a kiss. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’s always been too damn sneaky. 

Bruce sits awkwardly on the edge of the couch, then moves to sit in one of the chairs, and ultimately comes back to the couch. He runs a hand over its plush surface, noting the quality. It is not quite the same as before… That one was leather.

He watches the cushion beside him, recalling a long night from years ago, sitting in this room, on not quite this couch, with Selina. She’d just gotten back from a stint in Egypt, escaped, really, from some crazy cat-cult who’d wanted her for their queen. – He shakes his head. Only Selina. – She’d been gone for months, disappeared without a trace, no leads, nothing to tell him where she’d gone or if she would ever be back. He had thought she was dead… 

"I thought I’d lost you."

His words from that night echo in his ears. He can see her, hear the sharp intake of breath as he grips her shoulders. He can feel her lips on his, caressing, promising safety. He can taste her…

“Bruce,” Selina says from the doorway. He looks up, startled. The smell of caffeine invades his nose and he is brought abruptly back to the present situation.

She sets a mug before him, steam rising slowly from its surface. There is an indecisive pause, and then she sits beside him, careful not to touch him. He waits for her to speak.

She stares into her own mug, not drinking, and sighs heavily.

“I’m tired, Bruce,” she says softly. “I’m tired of this.” He doesn’t know how to answer her, so he says nothing. 

“We do this every time. We realize we’re in love, deny it, finally decide to give it a shot, and then ruin it. At this point, I have to wonder…” she rests her forehead against the rim of her cup. “Is it worth it?” 

He is at a loss. 

He wants to tell her, yes, of course, it has to be. He wants to pretend he doesn’t know why she would even ask. He also wants to say no, it’s not and it never will be. Go, get out while you still can. If you can. 

“Maybe it was never love at all,” she murmurs. Bruce goes cold. 

“What?”

“Maybe we were wrong. We’ve just been lying to ourselves all this time. We’re not lovers, we’re just two freaks with similar taste in spandex, who get off on adrenaline rushes.” 

“That is not true,” he says passionately.

“We wanted it to be love so badly…” He wants to shake her.

“Selina, how can you even say that?” 

“People who love each other don’t hurt each other the way we do, Bruce!” 

He is brought up short. After a time, he reminds her,

“Happiness doesn’t always come with love.” Her shoulders slump.

“Then what are we even fighting for?” 

He tries to give her an answer, but no words form. Such a simple question. Why does it hurt so much to consider?

“I tried to end it,” he says quietly.

“You pretended to end it,” she scoffs. “You always do.”

“What do you want from me, Selina?” He is beginning to sound angry. Well, two can play the game of righteous indignation.

“I want you to mean it for once!” she cries, standing. “Mean something, just once! Either you love me or you don’t, but give me a straight goddamn answer!”

“I never said I didn’t care for you,” he says evasively. 

“Spare me.” She walks away from him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why can’t you make a decision, Bruce? When we’re together, you ignore me, then we end and suddenly I’m some kind of priority. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I didn’t invite myself up to your apartment, Selina,” he says scathingly. She whirls on him, furious.

“’Please, Selina, just let me take you home?’” 

“I only wanted to make up for that scene at the museum,” he says, the Playboy act going up like a brick wall before her. 

“Well, I guess that guilt was fleeting, because you look awfully self-satisfied now.” 

She’s never seen him shift from Bruce Wayne to the Bat so swiftly. He rises, coming toward her.

“Do not mistake my defending myself for arrogance,” he says ominously. 

“Oh, defense. Is that what you were doing,” she sneers. 

“And if you insist on attacking me—.”

“Attacking you! Jesus, Bruce, I just asked you a question.”

“One I cannot answer.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

She stares at him.

“Bullshit,” she whispers. His expression darkens. 

“Selina—.”

“What!” she shouts. “Get out! Give me an answer or get the hell out!” 

“I…” he begins, then stops.

In the sudden quiet, a faint mewling can be heard from one of the adjoining rooms. When it becomes apparent that Bruce will not continue, Selina pads over to her office and opens the window for the cat. It shoots out, a grey streak disappearing into the night, putting as much distance between itself and the volatile humans as possible.

Kids can’t stand it when their parents fight.

Shaking her head, Selina walks back into the living room, now-cold tension seeping from its walls. She does not look at him when she says,

“Why can’t you just let me go, Bruce?”

He appears to struggle with himself for quite some time. Eventually, in a voice so strangled she can barely make out the words, he says,

“I don’t know how to be happy without you.” 

She snorts mirthlessly.

“You don’t know how to be happy, Bruce. Don’t try to pin that one on me. I’ve got nothing to do with it.” 

“You do,” he insists, driving himself to finally say it. “I’m not a good man.”

“Don’t—.”

“No. It’s true. I’ve been a terrible father. I’ve ruined every relationship I’ve ever had. I am not a happy person. But… you remind me that it’s possible. That life exists outside of all the blood and death. I’m… better when I’m with you. Not happy, exactly… but you give me the ability to be happy. You remind me what it’s like to try. That it’s worth it.”

“Thanks, lover,” she snickers pessimistically. “Always said you were the single decent man I ever met.” 

“You deserve better,” he says softly.

“So do you.” She inhales sharply, the sound harsh. “Bruce, I grew up on these streets. I know what you face every night, what you see while trying to protect the innocent. I’ve lived it. And I’ve got to tell you, you’re outmatched. No one is innocent in Gotham City. We’re all pimps and whores in our own, special ways. When we’re not genuine pimps and whores.” Bruce flinches at the thread of emotion in her voice. 

“And I’m just so done with it. I don’t want to be that thirteen-year-old girl standing in an alley anymore. I refuse to be sold. Not as Batman’s inferior or Bruce Wayne’s latest conquest,” she says, her eyes piercing. “I am done being owned.” 

The urge to touch her, to comfort her in some way is overwhelming. It’s like a knife twisting in his chest, watching her like this.

“I’m sorry,” he mouths, anguish robbing him of sound. She nearly laughs. 

Shit.

It’s a joke. All over the world, people are looking for their ‘soul mate.’ It’s supposed to be this rare, wonderful thing that only comes along once in a lifetime, if that, and if you miss it, that’s it, you lose. Well, she’s found hers, and suffice to say, it’s a rip-off. People act like a soul mate will never hurt you, but they’re wrong. Someone that close cuts you the deepest, wounds you the most. They can break you with a word. 

Dear god, why did it have to be this man? Anyone else would be better - make a little more sense. Anyone else, she could leave. 

She can leave. Selina Kyle is neither weak nor dependent, and she will go to her grave, proving it. She doesn’t need him, any more than he really needs her. She can function. Find things to do, people to rob. Make a life for herself as far from Gotham as humanly possible. He won’t follow her. He can’t. He’s chained to this city. 

“Bruce,” she sighs, carding her fingers through her hair. “I love you. But the way you string me along… you’re like a drug. I can’t do it anymore.”

He swallows. 

“I know.”

“So,” she says, looking him square in the face, her eyes liquid iron. “Can you do it?” 

“Do what,” he asks numbly. “Let you go?”

“Yes. That, or treat me as an equal, no holds barred. I told you. I won’t play second fiddle. This is our last chance. We’re either partners, or we’re nothing. And I want a straight answer, or you leave now, and I board the first plane out of the state.” 

He is very still for a moment, digesting her words. The coffee in their mugs has gone cold. He sets his down on the table, watching his reflection ripple in the dark liquid. After a time, he turns back to stare out the window behind them. Rain beats down upon it, stable and rhythmic. He takes a steadying breath.

“I’m so terrified…” he begins. “That one night, you won’t come back. And it will be my fault. You know me better than anyone, perhaps better than I know myself. It scares the hell out of me. I don’t know how to handle… what I feel. But my greatest fear… Without you, I don’t know that I would feel anything at all.”

“I can’t be your morality pet, Bruce,” she says gently. “I have to be more to you than that.” 

He reaches for her hand but does not touch it.

“You are.”

Something snaps, and a great wave of emotion crashes over her, love, sorrow, anger, fear. 

She strokes his face. 

“We’re very different people,” she murmurs. “And we’re both very different from who we were at the start of all this. We’re more weathered, we’ve got more scars. More regrets. We’ve been through a lot together over the years, a lot of battles, a lot of death. We’ve seen the worst humanity has to offer – but also the best. We’ve got a lot of history, Bruce, not all of which includes heists and handcuffs. We’ve shared love – happiness, even. But in the end, it all comes down to this: is it enough?” 

“Enough for what?”

“Enough for you to change.” 

“Into what,” he exclaims, shrugging off her hand. “The man you’re asking for doesn’t exist, Selina!”

“Do you want me to leave,” she cuts him off.

“What?”

“Do. You want me. To leave?” 

“What happened to ‘it wasn’t supposed to be a threat’?” 

“It isn’t one.”

“It sure as hell sounds like it—!”

“Answer the damn question!”

“No!” 

He is pacing, a caged animal, backed into the corner. Dangerous. 

“No, what,” Selina articulates slowly, deliberately. He grits his teeth.

“No, I do not want you to leave.” She advances on him, staring up into his face. 

“Then make. Up. Your. Mind.” He matches her intensity, watching the color shift in her eyes. He can smell her hair.

“What do you want me to say?”

“You have two options, Bruce,” she states. “Either you treat me as a partner and we give this one more go, or I leave. You’ve shown me that, as long as I stay in Gotham, I can’t trust you to let me alone. I’ll have your shadow hanging over me, reminding me…” she shakes her head. “How do you get over a soul mate, Bruce? You can’t, certainly not while he’s standing over you on a rooftop, every night. So you leave me no choice. I’m not trying to be cruel, or to trick you into letting me back into your life. But I won’t live in limbo any longer. 

“So here’s your decision: can you do it? Is what we have enough for you to try to be a better man?” 

Silence again. God, this night seems full of nothing but answerless questions and silences.

He should let her go. He should walk out right now and be done with it. Everything would be so much simpler without her, this brash, unpredictable woman. Sometimes he feels as though half his life is spent watching her walk that tightrope between good and evil, waiting for her to fall, hoping to be able to catch her. 

Her life would certainly be better without him. She’s said it herself, he brings her nothing but grief. And yet, she’s still here, asking him to fight. She believes in him though he has failed her. He makes the same mistakes again and again, yet here she is, giving him one last chance. 

And he can see in her eyes, it is his very last chance. What he says now will cement the way they carry out the rest of their lives. 

Equality. That’s all she wants. A relationship in which she is no one’s property, under no one’s command but her own. She has not demanded his obedience in anything, nor asked him to give up being what he is. She only wants that same freedom. And she wants it by his side. 

Christ. What have they been fighting over all night? Suddenly, the last two hours make no sense at all. 

Now they are balanced on a knife edge, and everything hangs in the balance. Make a decision. 

Make a decision. 

“Yes.” 

The breath goes out of her in a whoosh. Tears well in her eyes, and she forces them down, forces her voice to remain steady.

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes,” he says, his voice firm. “It is enough.” 

She closes her eyes, exhausted, remaining upright through sheer willpower. 

“So what does that mean for us,” she asks. He takes her hand, finally. 

“Selina… I will love you to the day I die. I don’t think there’s any way to change that. If you’ll stay… If you’ll stay, I will love you the way you deserve. As an equal. A partner. I swear it.” 

“What if I break your heart,” she chuckles, fighting the hitch in her voice. His blue eyes are devastating.

“I trust you.” 

Without thinking, she throws her arms around his neck, kissing him. He responds immediately and wholeheartedly, smoothing his hands over her bare back, pressing her closer, reveling in the feel and smell and taste of her. She runs her tongue over his bottom lip; he shivers, deepening the kiss. Relieved tears slip silently down her cheeks.

It is over as suddenly as it began. Selina breathes against his throat as he plays with her hair.

“I want to ask where we go from here,” he says carefully. “What you would have me do.”

“So why don’t you?” 

“I’m afraid I may not be able to give you what you ask for.” 

Ah. Yes. So many restrictions, so many rules. Love and equality are great and all, but secret identities and big-city politics still have to be appeased.

She smiles sadly. “You could still ask.”

“Selina…” Tentatively, as though she might fly away at any moment, he brushes her cheek lightly with his thumb. Her skin is soft where he touches it. He pulls back, his posture straightening. When he does speak, his voice is hushed. Just Bruce, neither of his two facades.

“What would you have me do?” 

She closes her eyes, willing herself not to bring his hand back to her face, not to feel the heat radiating from him, warming her thoughts.

She takes in his features, committing them to memory. 

How do you love someone who only exists in moments like these? Moments of weakness. Moments where, no matter what you choose, you’re making a mistake.

He may never be able to give her anything but walls, say anything but silences. 

How do you stand by someone, knowing they’re not real? 

He loves her.

The hardest part is, it’s not a lie. 

If it were a lie, an act… but it’s not. The way he looks at her now, somber and mournful, holding back hope as hard as he can, it makes her want to cry. Or scream. 

What would you have me do?

Every answer is a mistake. No matter what she chooses now, it will be the wrong decision. There are no other options at this point. There never were.

The moment stretches around them, all the air gone out of the room. Their heartbeats seem amplified, steady and slow, counting off the seconds.

Her eyes are soft, gleaming like emeralds. She takes his hand, large and calloused, cupped gently in both of hers. She lets the words out on a breath.

“Stay with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this chapter to feel like a natural progression of their argument. It ended up going in places I never actually expected. Comments and critiques welcome, as always.


	4. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fragile interlude between night and day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critiques welcome.

She pulls him toward her bedroom, dousing the lights along the way. He follows her soundlessly, barely daring to breathe. Her room is awash in the low, yellow glare of the city below, and as she closes the curtains, violet shadows sweep across the floor. 

The black evening gown falls silently to her feet, followed by his suit jacket, tie, and slacks. They step out of their shoes, leaving their clothing in a puddle at the foot of the bed. She sits on the edge, letting him settle onto his knees on the carpet before her, between her legs. He wraps his arms around her waist, breathing in the scent of her skin. He runs his lips over her stomach, raising goosebumps. 

“Selina,” he sighs, then tightens his arms as though in pain. “I’m s—.”

She grabs his face in her hands, bending to rest her forehead against his. 

“Bruce, Don’t” she whispers intensely. “Don’t be sorry anymore.” 

He shudders slightly under her touch. 

“I’ve been a fool,” he says. “I’ve hurt you.” She smiles, moving her fingers into his hair.

“So make it up to me.”

“I--,” 

She covers his mouth with her own, effectively ending his protest. His eyes close. He tastes sweet and deeply familiar. Everything about this embrace is a surprise for the both of them, like coming home after an earthquake expecting a smoking ruin, and instead finding everything perfect, exactly as it was. 

Selina feels as though she can breathe for the first time in weeks. She winds her arms around his neck, her lips parting. He moves his hands along her sides. When he begins to rise, to follow her onto the bed, she breaks away. 

“Wait,” she says breathlessly. He stills. 

“What’s wrong?” His voice is rough, but his self-restraint is in no danger of faltering. She brushes a lock of hair from his forehead, her heart aching. 

“Can we do it,” she asks earnestly. “Can we be different people?” 

“Better people, you mean?” She smiles crookedly.

“Saner people, certainly.” 

“Wasn’t it you who made a comment about a man who runs around at night, dressed as a giant, flying rodent,” Bruce inquires sardonically, crossing his arms over her thighs.

“Oh, honey, I was hardly the first to put forth that point.” She strokes his neck. He leans into the contact. “Really…” she continues quietly. “Is it possible?” 

Bruce looks at her, her beautiful face and intelligent green eyes. How many times has he nearly lost her? How many times has he told her he trusted her, demanded she trust him, and then taken it all back, ripped the ground right out from underneath her? 

“I don’t know,” he admits honestly. She shakes her head slowly.

“Gonna have to do better than that.” 

He sighs, moving to sit beside her on the bed. He takes her hand in his, playing with her fingers absently. 

“I love you,” he says simply. 

“I love you too, Bruce.” But love alone doesn’t buy much these days, not in their world. It has to be more than that now.

He watches her hand, kissing the inside of her wrist before placing her palm against his cheek and sighing. When he speaks, there is steel in his voice.

“We are partners. That won’t change. For everything else… we can try.” She brushes her lips under his jaw, whispering in his ear.

“I guess that’s all I can ask.” 

For tonight, it is enough. Whatever the morning brings may shatter this fragile promise, but for now, it is all they have. 

He brushes his lips against hers, watching her for confirmation. Selina closes her eyes and returns the kiss, thinking of the word home. Then she laughs.

“What is it,” he breathes. 

“I’m getting cliché in my old age,” she purrs. He growls.

“Never.” She laughs again, letting go at last. 

Bruce rolls her onto her back, trailing gentle kisses up the length of her body. She shivers, pushing up against him as he twines their fingers together on the pillow. 

His dress shirt falls to the floor, followed shortly by their undergarments. Flesh against flesh, they are like live wires exchanging sparks. Wherever he touches, a slow fire ignites under her skin; every caress of her fingertips sends electricity up his spine. He nips her lightly on the neck, making her gasp. In retaliation, Selina shifts her weight, rolling them until she straddles him. For a moment, she simply gazes down at him, softly illuminated as he is in the little light that reaches them.

If for only this moment, if for only this night, her home is right here, beside this beautiful, frustrating man. 

She leans forward until her breasts brush his chest, taking his bottom lip lightly between her teeth before inhaling. She watches his pupils dilate, his muscles tighten, holding back. Letting her be in control. Letting her decide.

Closing her eyes, Selina leans in. 

***** 

Hours later, as the false glitter of the Gotham night disappears in the grey of morning, Bruce and Selina breathe evenly in sleep. Fitted tightly against one another, his face buried in her short, dark hair, their fingers intertwined, they form a barrier, prolonging the night as long as possible. 

Their city is quiet, at peace. She gives them this interval, this tiny space between catastrophes, and they take it. 

Selina smiles in her sleep as the first fingers of sunlight reach across the rooftops and fire escapes, washing away the shadows with the first light of dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so nervous about this one. Tell me if it's any good! Also, let me know if you'd like me to continue this story, or let it end here.


	5. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daylight has a way of changing things. For better or for worse, Selina must face her promises, and the unexpected consequences that come with them.

There is a soft tapping somewhere on the other side of the ocean. Selina huffs and burrows deeper into the covers, willing it to shut up. 

But soon the tapping has become a knocking, growing louder and closer. When it feels like a sledgehammer upside her skull, Selina jerks upright. 

It is still dark in her room, the blackout curtains blocking all but a thin line of watery light that arcs across her ceiling like a scar. The knocking continues, identifiable now as coming from the other side of her bedroom door.

“What,” she calls groggily, blowing hair out of her face. 

“Selina?” comes the muffled reply from beyond the door. At the sound of the voice, Selina groans, melting back into the pillows. 

Holly. Right. She’s home for break. She said she’d be visiting, but Selina hadn’t thought it would be at the ass-crack of dawn. She yawns, throwing an arm over her eyes.

“What is it, Kid? And can it wait till later? It’s barely,” – she checks the clock on the bedside table. Four-forty-three… PM. 

“Shit.”

“It’s time to wake the hell up, Selina,” the teenager calls, annoyed. “Open up.” 

“Fine, gimme ‘m’nute,” Selina mumbles, disentangling herself from the mass of sheets. 

In the brief silence, pieces of the night before come back to her, hazy recollections growing clearer and sharper, more immediate. Sitting up again, she rolls her stiff shoulders carefully. Then she takes a breath. 

Waking the Beast is always a somewhat harrowing ordeal. Although he automatically rises at the ludicrous hour of five thirty AM every damn day, he will, if he judges it safe and prudent, occasionally fall back into sleep (or bed, at least) with her - but after that, he can be a nightmare when woken suddenly. Bruce Wayne is just as likely to greet the morning with a stranglehold as with a kiss. Selina’s had to put him in a headlock more than once, and has developed a keen sense of admiration for Alfred in his daily duties as Wayne Alarm Clock. 

“Bruce,” she says quietly, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. There is no answer. She tries again, a little louder.

“Bruce.” Still, he does not move. There’s nothing for it.

Sighing, she reaches across the bed to gently shake him. 

Her hand falls on empty air. 

Abruptly alert, Selina whips her head around to look at the pillow beside hers. The covers are pulled back, revealing a man-sized dent slowly fading from the mattress. 

She clambers gracelessly to the end of the bed, raking her eyes over the floor. 

His clothes are gone. He is gone.

She is alone. 

Selina sinks to her knees, her head falling into her hands. 

“Shit,” she whispers. 

Of course. What the hell had she expected? Some kind of happy ending? 

This is Gotham, she reminds herself acidly. There are no happy endings. Only wolves and the stupid little girls who fall for them. 

“Selina? Are you alright,” Holly asks. She tries to answer, but her throat has swollen painfully shut.

And perhaps it is better that way. If she could make any noise at all, she would probably scream. As it is, her chest feels like a vise, constricting against all the things she would dearly like to say. 

Her face is hot and her head feels about ready to shatter, but everything else is cold, like she’s been buried in deep snow. Numb.

Her emotions taste vile. 

Shame and rage and self-hatred boil within her, loosening her joints, making her collapse in on herself. Her skin crawls.

God damn him. God damn him! 

“What the heck is taking you so long?” Holly’s impatience registers only dimly in Selina’s awareness. Her lips twitch spasmodically. 

'Oh, nothing,' she wants to cackle. 'The usual.' 

Just as she manages to unlock her voice, there is movement in her peripheral vision. Selina jumps like a scalded cat, nearly launching herself through the window. 

“Selina,” Bruce exclaims, startled, standing in the doorway to her on-suite bathroom. 

“Shit!” she cries. 

For a fraction of a heartbeat, all they can do is stare at one another. 

He’s not gone. He’s here.

Why is he here? 

“Selina?” Holly calls in alarm. 

“I’m fine,” Selina croaks. 

“If you’re fine, then open the damn door. We need to talk.” 

Selina wills her breathing to slow, her emotions to stabilize. It is like attempting to push a fallen skyscraper back upright. The ground shakes beneath her.

Too damn sneaky. What does the man do, for god’s sake? Float? 

“Are you alright,” he asks softly, coming toward her. He is dressed again in his clothes from the night before, albeit sans tux and tie. He is still a bit rumpled, but not nearly as much as Selina expects she is. 

“Sure,” she breathes, swinging her feet out of bed and onto the floor. “Just give me a minute to recover from the cardiac arrest.” 

Maybe she should consider installing a defibrillator in the handy bedside medical kit he once insisted she keep. He likely has one already in his, the paranoid. 

“Why are you still here?” Her words take him slightly aback.

“I wasn’t going to leave you,” he says stolidly. 

Selina’s eyes flutter shut a moment, and she simply breathes. When she opens them again, he smiles gently and cups her chin in his palm. Her turbulent state quiets as Bruce continues to look at her with those intent blue eyes. 

Still, it hurts. Relief is a funny thing – it’s nice in small doses, but can be excruciating when it shows up en masse. Which is rather unsettling. 

He should not have this strong of an effect on her. She really should have expected him to be gone in the morning, never to return – or worse, to return, but only with the same cold words as all the times before. It almost bothers her that, apparently, she truly did believe him when he said things would be different this time. 

But, then again, he is still here. Something is different. 

“Good,” she says simply. Selina shakes herself, squaring her shoulders.

She stands, grabbing a silk robe from the chair against the far wall and wraps it around herself. Then she makes her way to the door, opening it just enough to admit Holly a view of her face. The thin girl on the other side stares up at her, hip cocked, one eyebrow raised. Her bright orange hair sticks out in its customary short ponytail, and her brown eyes are amused, if a bit suspicious. Selina leans against the doorframe, feigning ease. 

“What’s up, Hol?” 

“Can I come in?”

“Ah…” she glances reflexively at Bruce, standing frozen, out of sight from the door. “Not right now, kid.”

“Well, then come out here. You’ll want to be sitting down for this one.” 

“What are you talking about?” Selina shifts her weight, blocking more of her room from Holly’s inquisitive stare. 

“News,” the girl replies, standing on tiptoes and craning her neck, stubbornly trying to see around her friend’s figure. “Is there someone in there with you?”

“Yes, Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn. We’re having a slumber party. Now what is this you’re so desperate to tell me? Just spit it out, Hol, I can take it.” 

A weird flashback to however-many hours ago shoots through Selina’s mind. 

Go on, Bruce. Tell me. I can take it.

“Fine, have it your way,” Holly sighs. She takes a stack of newspapers from behind her back. “Here. You made the headlines.” 

Selina snaps out of her reverie, staring at the front page of the Gotham Gazette, trying to focus her eyes. The words make no sense for about thirty seconds before meaning strikes with the force of a city bus. 

“Shit.”

"Mystery Woman Steals Kiss from Billionaire," it reads. "Gets him to take her ‘Home.’" 

Selina hastily drops the Gazette and flips to the next paper. The slightly more reputable, if no less annoying, Gotham Enquirer has a similar story to sell, complete with a nice big shot of the two of them, standing in the middle of the dance floor, locked together like a couple of hormonal teenagers. 

“New Mystery or Old Flame?” the headline reads. “Gotham’s own Billionaire Playboy, Bruce Wayne, was caught in a passionate embrace at the Clairmont-sponsored charity gala last night. Witnesses say the two appeared to be arguing, and then, out of nowhere, ‘fell on one another as though they were drowning.’” – Selina wonders, aside, which little old woman pulled that line straight out of her sleazy romance novel – “Our question is: who is she? Our sources are scouring for evidence--.” 

“So,” Holly swipes the papers back out of Selina’s hands, a smug smile on her lips. “I’m going to make a wild guess here and say,” she raises her voice to carry into Selina’s room. “Hi, Mister Wayne! Would you like some breakfast?”

Selina watches her, as though deciding how to react. Finally, she chuckles, shaking her head resignedly.

“It appears the jig is up,” she says, looking over her shoulder at Bruce. “I’d let you hide in the closet, but I think she’s figured us out.”

She lets go of the door, allowing it to swing open, while Bruce busies himself with adjusting his cuffs. There is a beat, and then he glances at Holly experimentally. He hasn’t seen the girl in years, not since before she left for college and moved into her own apartment. 

Her friendly, intelligent demeanor is a little unnerving. Beneath the pleasant face, he can feel her analyzing him. Holly’s gaze cuts quick and deep, revealing all your secrets, getting right to the heart of things. She sees people for who and what they really are. 

She is like Selina that way. 

“So it would seem,” he murmurs, considering this turn of events. 

Apparently satisfied, Holly pivots on her heel and leaves them, moving toward the kitchen. 

“I’ll get something started,” she calls back, a smirk in her voice. “You two make yourselves presentable for the media shit storm that’s about to blow up in your faces.” 

Selina and Bruce exchange a look. What are they going to do? 

Promises are one thing, and great sex is great, but neither of them is ready to make public announcements about their would-be relationship. It’s hot and it’s intense, but still so precarious. So… potentially impermanent. They’re still working out the details themselves. And neither of them certainly ever planned on releasing any of this information to the press. 

What the hell are they going to do now?

“And by the way,” Holly says from the kitchen. “You left gross old coffee in the pot all night. I’ll have to clean the thing before making any more. Sorry, you’re shit out of caffeine this evening.”

Selina lets her head come to rest against the door jamb, her lips curling up. She laughs quietly, rubbing her temples with her thumb and forefinger.

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this is not where I thought this story was going when I started it - but this just seems like the most logical next step from what I've already set up. It should be interesting to see where this goes next. In the meantime, what do you think?


	6. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations take a turn for the complicated.

Selina comes back into the room, closing the door behind her. Bruce stands rigidly before her, as though waiting for orders. 

“At ease, soldier,” she says dryly. He relaxes his stance, but his expression remains tense and unreadable. “Don’t worry,” she laughs. “There’s a coffee shop at the end of the block. You don't have to go caffeine-free. I think I’ve even still got one of your old shirts somewhere, if you want to take Matches Malone out for a stroll. Of course, I always did prefer Lefty What’s-His-Face. Nice guy. Had a mean right hook, as I recall.” He gives her a long-suffering look. Selina raises an eyebrow. 

“Not talkin’, eh?” 

“What is there to say,” he finally asks. 

“Oh, I dunno. ‘Good morning,’ ‘Good day,’ ‘Good God, what the hell are we going to do about all of this?’” 

“I am… concerned,” he says, and she snorts.

“Ah, yes. I could tell by your expressionless gaze.”

“My expression is inadequate?” he huffs indignantly. 

“Well, I’d appreciate some sign of life. Let me know you’re still breathing in there... A kiss would be a nice touch.” He does not take the hint. 

“Hey,” she says, her tone suddenly more serious. She places a hand on his cheek, looking into his eyes with concern. “Don’t shut me out.”

“I’m not,” he denies. 

“You are.” He takes her hand gently from his face. 

“This isn’t the time for games,” he says. “We need to be planning our next move, not ignoring the situation. No matter how desirable the distraction. This is important.” 

“I know it is. That’s why I need you to be here, with me, not locked away inside yourself. Too many times, Bruce, I’ve been in a room with you, and you weren’t there. I won’t start this if I’m going to be alone, even while standing right next to you. When we face this, we have to face it together. I need that from you.” 

He watches her, weighing his response. 

“This isn’t a relationship if you can’t trust me,” he says quietly. “I need to know that you can.” 

“I do, Bruce, it’s…” she sighs. “It’s hard.” His heart constricts.

“I know.” 

“And I know you’re not the only one who’s ever pulled a double-cross,” she admits. “I guess the door swings both ways.” He nods softly, regretfully. 

“It always does.” 

For a moment, they are quiet, listening to the sounds of Holly bustling away in Selina’s tiny kitchen. The smell of bacon begins to fill the apartment, and the two adults are made acutely aware that neither one of them has eaten in close to twenty-four hours. They left the charity event before dinner was served. 

“Put that topic on the list of discussions we need to have when we’re not running on fumes,” Selina suggests. Bruce nods.

“Good plan.” 

She regards him thoughtfully. He’s trying, but even now, he’s still so distant. 

Breaking Bruce out of his moods has always been one of Selina’s more challenging pass-times. Like breaking into the Vatican or the Taj Mahal, it requires a mixture of subtlety and skill. Of all the tricks of the trade, those are the two most useful, but Selina’s personal favorites have always been blackmail and bribery. And while not usually effective against the Dark Knight, there are buttons to push, loopholes in his manifesto. Years of knowing the man have given Selina a distinct edge in exploiting these infinitesimal weaknesses, those things that make him human. That bring him back to her.

Selina Kyle does enjoy a challenge.

As-though casually, she lets her shoulders drop, resting her weight on one hip. Then she stretches, catlike, closing her eyes and arching her back, one arm raised languidly over her head.

Slowly, the dark silk robe yields to gravity and slips to the side, the knot at her waist coming loose. When she straightens again, it falls open entirely to reveal the full, naked curves of her body. 

Having now captured Bruce’s absolute attention, she saunters forward until she is nearly flush against him, their lips a hair’s breath apart. His breathing is shallower, his broad muscles flexed. 

She cocks her head to one side, kissing the corner of his mouth softly. It twitches once, then finally turns up. 

“You’re cruel,” he murmurs. She chuckles, low and sultry against the hollow at his throat, her hands moving lower. He makes a strangled sound and steps slightly away from her. “I like these pants,” he says quietly, by way of explanation. 

“Mm, so do I,” Selina replies, her eyes dancing. “I’d like them even better, pooled around your feet.” 

“Selina--!”

“I’m teasing you,” she laughs. 

“I noticed,” he grumbles, flushed. Her expression changes.

“Stay,” she says, touching his chest with her fingertips. “With me. Mentally, I mean.” 

“Stay with me,” he counters. “Physically. Preferably without the distractions, for now.” She scoffs, but considers his words.

“You first,” she says at last. He shakes his head in exasperation.

“You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re surprised?” 

“Not at all.” She smiles briefly.

“So tell me. Will you stay?” 

He takes a breath, feeling the importance of this question and its short answer. In one fell swoop, another of his walls comes crumbling down. She is drawing him out of his fortress, forcing him from solitude. She’s done it before, but it somehow feels different this time. And it's faster. Less than twenty-four hours have passed, and already, so much has changed. He cannot decide whether he is grateful, afraid, resentful, or some combination of the three. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter. This is what he wants - what they both want. It’s what she needs from him now. He can only make the leap, and hope to god he isn’t lying. 

“I will,” he says, and her body relaxes, the faint tension in her shoulders unnoticeable until its absence. “And you?” he asks. She brushes her thumb across his lips, amused. 

“I will.” Then she grins wickedly. “Although I’d still prefer those pants in shreds, on my floor.”

“Reneging so soon?” He inquires sardonically. 

“Merely a parting shot, my dear.” She bows theatrically, and shrugs the robe entirely from her shoulders, letting it fall to the carpet as she moves toward the closet. 

Bruce stares after her, standing very, very still. His face feels hot. So do several other places. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he mutters, frustrated in more ways than one.

Selina shrugs flirtatiously, her expression saying it all. 

It worked. 

He recognizes her success by ignoring her, but can’t seem to find his way back to that stony silence of before. He shakes his head bemusedly.

She really is the only one who can do that. 

Selina opens her wardrobe, sorting haphazardly through its contents. She pulls out a plum-colored blouse and a black skirt, and lays them on the bed. Then she steps into the shower, the water warm on her tired skin. She wonders idly if Bruce might join her, but, remembering Holly just down the hall, banishes the thought. She finishes her morning routine and exits the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her chest, another around her forehead, drying her hair. When she removes it, the short locks stick straight out at odd angles, like a mass of ebony feathers. Bruce hides a smile at the sight of her. 

As she dresses, Selina realizes that this is the first time he has watched her change into anything but her catsuit. The implications are provocative.

Suddenly hyper-conscious of her audience, she pauses, watching his face in the mirror. He looks fascinated. 

She smoothes her hair with her fingers, returning it to its normal sleek state, keeping her makeup light and simple. And all the time, she can feel his eyes on her. It's odd. Not unpleasant, exactly, but… Unfamiliar. 

“How do I look,” she asks, turning toward him. 

“Beautiful,” he answers immediately, earning a grin from her. 

She steps to the window, throwing open the heavy curtains. In an instant, the room is awash in bright afternoon sunlight, the sudden change harsh on their eyes. They have both been trained to adjust to any situation within seconds, but truth be told, starlight lenses and color filters tend to play a significant role in the practical application of that training. 

Selina gazes down at the street below, crowded with litter and swells of people. It’s not the worst housing project in the East End, and she certainly keeps up her own building and living spaces, but the view is less than stellar. 

Behind her, Bruce watches the dust motes glint and dance around her slender frame, circling closer and closer, but never touching her. Her damp hair is a gilded halo in the light, lingering droplets catching the rays and throwing them about like jewels. Her cheeks are soft and dusky with the glow, and when she turns to look at him, her eyes are fired emeralds. She takes his breath away.

“We have a problem,” she drawls. 

“What is it?" 

“Your car’s been stolen,” she says. He blinks.

“What?”

“Guess we really should have thought that one through, huh?” She gestures him to the window, pointing to the sidewalk far below. “It’s gone. The jag.” She rubs the back of her neck. “Car like that, left alone at night in this neighborhood... We must have really been distracted. Sorry. Would it help if I said I’ll buy you another one?” Bruce shakes his head.

“It’s not stolen,” he says.

“What, your bat-senses are telling you that it just took off on its own for a little joy ride?” 

“No. It’s back at the Manor.” She looks at him, artificially aghast.

“What, first you gut the poor thing to put in your new, fancy wiring, and then you bastardize its memory by installing autopilot? It’s an antique, Bruce, it deserves a little more respect than to become a life-sized, bat-themed Hotwheel.” 

“I did not install an auto-piloting system,” he says a little petulantly. “Alfred came and picked it up.” 

“Oh.” Selina's lips quirk. “When?” He shifts uncomfortably.

“Sometime last night.” 

Uh oh. A feeling of dread begins to bubble in the pit of Selina’s stomach.

“And he knew to do this, how, exactly?” Bruce clears his throat.

“I assume that Nightwing told him.”

“And Dick would know to call the old man, because...?” Bruce tries and fails to lie to her. He considers several half-lies that might lend him some plausible deniability, but ultimately decides against it. 

In the end, he settles for the truth, letting it all out on one breath, his careful stoicism cracking under her intense scrutiny. 

“I was supposed to be on patrol last night, after the gala. When I didn’t show up, and refused to answer any calls, Nightwing likely contacted Oracle, who would have then tracked the car here, and made conclusions about the situation – which I would normally dissuade her from doing without sufficient evidence, but…” He clears his throat again, risking a glance in Selina’s direction. “In this case, she was demonstrably correct.” 

Selina looks about to say several colorful things, but instead holds up her index finger, demanding silence from him while she chooses her next words. 

“So then, they know,” she says at last, her voice flat. He makes no move to confirm nor deny, simply stands there, awaiting the explosion. Selina rubs her eyes as though they hurt. “I’m beginning to wish you had put autopilot in the damn car.” 

“I installed a homing device,” he offers.

“So I gathered.” She looks at him straight then, and he can’t help but be trapped by her stare. “You’re telling me,” she says. “That they know. All of them. Alfred, Dick, Barbara, probably Leslie too, by now – Oh god! Will the kids have heard?” 

The corners of Bruce’s mouth turn down. He hasn’t thought about Tim or Cassandra. Or any of the other young heroes zooming in and out of the house these days. And he has no idea how Damian might react to something like this.

“They’re old enough to deal with it,” he says gruffly, trying to convince himself as much as Selina, who looks a little green.

“I know." She nibbles the tip of her thumb nail. “I just never imagined myself as gossip for thirteen-year-olds. Not for this, anyway.” Bruce coughs discreetly.

“You should probably have let go of that expectation the first time Robin went on patrol with me.” 

“That doesn’t count,” she maintains. “He was just an annoying, peppy sidekick back then, not someone I actually knew. He’s a friend now, and the others… Bruce, for Christ’s sake, I’ve babysat some of them! And now, they’ll be telling jokes about…” She falls into a cushioned chair set against the wall. 

“They would have found out anyway,” he points out. “The whole city is investigating now. Which,” he adds mildly, “is the real problem we should be attending to.” 

“Screw the city,” Selina snaps. “Our kids are--.” She cuts herself off suddenly, startled. There is a long beat, but neither of them address her slip. When Selina speaks again, they continue the conversation as though nothing happened.

“The kids are more important, and therefore more pressing.”

“They would have found out,” he repeats.

“Yes, eventually,” she counters. “For now, it would have been gossip, just one more sordid story made up or embellished to sell papers. But instead, everyone – everyone who matters – knows that Batman and Catwoman are officially fucking.” She flushes and looks away, angry. “Again.” 

“Is that what this is about,” he asks, sitting on his haunches before her. Even with her in the chair, he comes up nearly to her shoulder. “Are you upset that we… did this? Made love? Again?” She lets out a breath.

“No, Bruce,” she says earnestly. “I am not upset. I have no regrets about last night. It’s just, I've never had a reputation to keep up before, other than Femme Fatale, Feline, or Felon – and I was a damn good felon.”

“Still are,” he notes wryly. She smirks.

“Thank you. But I never cared about what anyone thought of me, as long as it got me what I wanted in the long run. I had Holly, and no one else. And then I didn’t even have her anymore. 

“For a long time, even you were just a pawn in a game I thought I was playing. An extremely attractive pawn, and one whom I would have missed, had you mysteriously disappeared one night – but that’s the point. For however long I’ve loved you, whether it was first sight, first scratch, or somewhere down the line, I’ve denied it to myself for at least half as long. It didn’t matter what you thought because I didn’t know you, and I didn’t care. When that changed, it was like my whole life reordered itself to make room for this… this mythological thing called ‘giving a shit.’

“I care about these kids, and Alfred, and Dick. And even Babs. It matters, what they think of me, now. I can’t help it.” She shakes her head, exhasperated. “God, that sounds pathetic.” 

“It’s not pathetic,” Bruce contends, rising to his knees and taking her face in his hands. “It’s crucial. And something I’ve never been very good at.”

“You’re not so bad,” Selina says. Then she smirks involuntarily. “Well, you’ve been getting better, lately. That counts for something, right?” 

“I hope so,” he murmurs, then ends the conversation with a kiss. She responds, slowly at first. He wraps his arms around her, mussing her clothes, pressing her into the back of the chair. Selina breaks the contact to trail her lips along his jaw. 

"What was that you were saying about 'no distractions?'" she asks. He growls guiltily and kisses her collarbones through her blouse. "Hypocrite," she breathes. The chair squeaks.

No, that was the door.

“Get a room,” Holly drones, leaning against the door frame with a spatula in her hand.

“This is my room,” Selina grumbles into the collar of Bruce’s shirt. Holly shrugs, completely unabashed. 

“Breakfast is ready. Hope you like bacon and pancakes. It’s all Selina had left in the pantry.” 

***** 

Breakfast... or dinner, as it well may be, given the time, is a strangely domestic affair. They sit and eat while Holly talks about college life, what the weather is like upstate, and how she misses Slam and Selina. But not Gotham.

“It’s a little hard to be back, honestly,” she says uncertainly. “All these places, these streets, they hold so many memories. It was nice to forget.” 

Bruce thinks about that. If he’d moved away when he was eight, to another state, another country, would he be a happier person now? He hadn’t because he’d thought that he could fix this city, save the people in it. He’d thought the memory of his parents that night would never fade, so he looked for ways to make it mean something more than senseless death. But all he’s done is create more memories he can’t escape, more alleys he hates to go down. 

He can see that Selina is thinking along the same lines, though he knows her memories run with different context. She’d had no way to leave when her life fell apart, nowhere to go. She’d been five years old, her sister had been an infant, and by the time she could board a bus on her own, she was stranded and starving on the street. Yet she managed to survive, to reinvent herself. Through thievery and cunning, she bought herself a new life. She could have left right then, she had the money. But she stayed. 

Because of him. 

Catwoman had met Batman, and he had presented her with a challenge. The streets could no longer hold her in their gutters. She had been given the rooftops. 

If he’d left when he was eight, if he’d never cast a shadow for her to see, would either of them be here right now? Would they be happier?

Back in reality, Selina is chuckling. 

“Thanks for coming to visit anyway, kid,” she says. “Are you going to see Karon anytime soon?”

“In about an hour, yeah,” Holly replies happily. “So I should probably get going, actually.” She puts her plate in the sink, then reaches over to take Bruce and Selina’s. “You two have fun with your press conferences.” 

“What--?”

“Oh, there will be press conferences,” Holly grins. “At least for Bruce. The vultures are gathering at his gates as we speak.” Selina scoffs.

“Come on, Hol, it’s not like the man’s never kissed a woman for the cameras – hell, it’s not even the first time the woman’s been me.”

“That’s the thing, though,” she disagrees. “He’s been seen with every socialite on the East Coast at some point. But he’s never cared about one of them before – And the show you two put on last night is about as far from the usual Wayne Circus as it's possible to get. It’s on every channel – you’re the scandal of the century in this town.” Selina rests her chin on her fist.

“This town has seen its mayor, police commissioner, and half its police force either killed or charged with federal crimes, all within the last century. Hell, there’s a full-fledged family of masked vigilantes active in the city every night, yet the action between the Wayne bed sheets is the number one scandal?” 

Privately, Bruce echoes her sentiment. 

“But those things are upsetting,” the teenager argues. “Or at the very least, depressing. Even you heroes just remind people that they live in a city that’s so messed up, it needs five full-time, highly-trained, extralegal crime fighters just to keep it from eating itself alive. But something like this, it gives people hope.”

“Batman gives people hope,” Bruce disagrees softly.

“Yes, but it’s a hope of being rescued from certain doom,” Holly explains, gesturing with her hands. “This thing with Bruce Wayne, it’s just fluff. It’s easy. You ever wonder why we get stories about new exercise trends beside features on mass murder? People need that escape.”

“And why would they find it in this,” Bruce asks with some slight irritation. But either Holly can’t hear it or doesn’t care, because she barges right on ahead. 

“For the first time, Gotham’s 'First Son' is showing real feelings for someone other than himself. They’re all wondering if the prince may finally have found a princess. One who’ll stick around for more than a few months. Maybe even for good.” 

“I was never really the ‘princess’ type, kid,” Selina mutters. “And His Highness here has had his fair share of contestants for the Gazette’s ‘Who Wants to Marry a Billionaire’ routine. This is nothing new.” 

“But it is more public,” Bruce concedes reluctantly. “Even when the papers did hear about someone I was seeing exclusively… who, though they usually didn't know it, was, in fact, you more often than not… we were never open about it. No one ever knew the details.” 

“And now they’re out for blood." Selina does not sound pleased. 

“Exactly,” Holly says.

“Great.” 

Bruce pats her knee awkwardly under the table. 

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Shut up.” 

“Well, I’m off,” Holly exclaims cheerfully. She walks to the front door and calls back over her shoulder, “Good luck!” Then it is closed, and they are alone. In the ensuing quiet, Selina and Bruce watch one another across the table. Finally, Selina takes a breath.

“Seriously,” she says. “What are we going to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting Damian to show up... but then I remembered this thing called 'continuity,' and I figured I should probably acknowledge the adorable brat's existence. So, we shall see how this plays out, then. =1 Should be even more fun when Batman and Catwoman don their costumes while still having to navigate this new arrangement.


	7. Contingency Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bat and the Cat take on a new case that hits far too close to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! Hope it's worth the wait!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING for this chapter: mentions of sexual violence

“Of course this car has auto-pilot,” Selina intones sardonically, watching the sleek black form of the Batmobile pull smoothly into the alley beside them. The night is moonless, and in the deep shadow between the two buildings, the vehicle very nearly disappears. 

“Of course,” Bruce replies absently. In nothing but his sleeveless undershirt and slacks, he looks the picture of an affluent lay-about, almost humorous in its stark contrast to his dingy surroundings. He keys open the trunk with his palm, revealing an assortment of variously labeled drawers and sealed cases, containing everything from grappling hooks to minor incendiaries. 

He lifts one particular case, somewhat larger and more complicated than the rest, and sets it on the ground. He then selects three small, round capsules from one of the drawers, tosses them to Selina, and silently closes the trunk. She catches them effortlessly in one hand and holds them up to examine more closely. 

“What are these,” she asks, sliding a new lens into place on her goggles. The blue-mirrored surface gives way to a sheer, red filter, then a green one. “Smoke bombs?”

“You might find them useful,” he murmurs, typing in a complex code on the armored case before him. 

“They’re not really my style,” she says, her goggles glazing blue again. Nonetheless, she slips the capsules into a discreet pocket on the thigh of her catsuit, cunningly crafted to mask tiny lumps and potentially-incriminating outlines. She knows where everyone expects she hides her trinkets, and honestly, that faulty assumption can be convenient. When security is focused on more… prominent prospective hiding places, it is often easier to tuck a top-secret flash drive or a priceless gem someplace a little subtler.

The mysterious case beeps softly beneath Bruce’s hands and slides open to reveal a dark, armored chest plate, dense but lightweight, emblazoned with a raised bat symbol in its center. Beneath that is a series of braces and guards, all reinforced with Kevlar and god-knows-what else. Fists, knife wounds, bullets, ice, acid, and various poisons are routinely blocked, repelled, and obstructed by the thin layers of synthetic materials. And as much as the suit looks like overkill, any one of the notorious members of the Bat Clan will tell you the truth: it’s the bare minimum for survival in this business.

As she helps him attach the pieces, adjusting the fit and locking them in place, Selina marvels, not for the first time, that no one has caught him doing this yet. Of course, he does know how to pick the spots – the alley in which they are currently standing is set between two blank eight-story walls, no windows on either side, in the dead of night, in a neighborhood where no one looks out the window after six o’clock anyway. He could hardly be better off back at the manor. 

Ah, the many backhanded gifts of the East End. 

Bruce helps her reach the latches on the larger pieces, hidden at his sides and middle back. Selina can’t help but admire their quality. The chest plate is molded to his form with a precision that would make Power Girl’s tailor blush. The shoulder pads, which greatly add to the effect of making him look like a tank, are also useful when one is expecting to be stabbed in the back. The leg guards are an interesting ordeal, strapped to his outer thighs beneath the increasingly-wrinkled slacks. She lets him deal with those, working instead on his shin guards, which are thin and do nearly nothing. 

Getting him out of all of this, she reflects, is no easy task either. Sex hasn’t been this complicated since before she ditched the purple nightmare in favor of her current, more practical zippered jumpsuit. 

Selina quietly mourns the loss of shred-able, easily-replaced spandex as she watches Bruce pull the grey hybrid material - customized, form-fitting, and probably more expensive than one of her evening gowns – over his head. He smoothes the bat symbol over its triple-reinforced patch of armor, and seals the hem to the waistband of the leggings through some alchemy of clothing design. He pulls on the boots and gloves, then glances up. 

Sometimes, when the lights are low, Selina traces his scars with the tips of her fingers. In those rare, softer moments, lying naked in his bed or hers, their breathing slow, she considers the memories behind those savage marks. Many of them, she was there for. A few, she even helped inflict. She looks now at The Bat, that symbol built to protect the man from the cannibals of this city, and thinks of those moments. Watching his eyelids flutter shut, fighting the delicate pull of sleep, she often wonders quietly at its inadequacy. 

“You should have a belt, Selina,” he remarks, his voice idling somewhere between Bruce and the Bat. “It would make sense.” She smirks and leans against the side of the Batmobile. 

“Why, so I can carry around nifty, cat-themed gadgets? You know me better.” 

“Not your style?” he asks, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

“I have my preferences.” She gestures to the whip coiled innocently enough at her waist. He snaps his own belt into place around his hips. 

“You might find it convenient,” he insists. “I can have Alfred take your measurements back at the Cave.” 

“Like you don’t know my ‘measurements,’” she says dryly. 

“I… have a fairly educated guess,” he admits. “Not something I’d be willing to base a potentially life-saving device off of.”

“While I’m flattered, Bats, I don’t accept charity.” He throws her a surprisingly ironic look. 

“What’s mine is yours?” he suggests. She snickers impishly. 

“Careful. I might take you up on that.” 

“I wish you would,” he says, quiet concern leaking into his voice. He cups the back of her head in one of his large hands. “You should be better protected.”

“I can take care of myself,” she replies coolly. He vents a short sigh, then dips in for a kiss. 

“I know,” he says, standing straighter and pulling the cowl over his face. Selina watches him closely. 

“We agreed this ‘protocol’ is just a stop-gap,” she reminds him. “Until the media calms down, or we come up with something better. We have fairly limited options. But I would prefer you didn’t start treating me like a house cat. I don’t need to be provided for.” He simply grunts, and she reaches around him to attach the cape at his throat. She is abruptly reminded of the first time she did this, that first night in the cave. She smiles slightly and lets him move away, toward the fire escape at the back of one of the buildings. 

“Ready?” he asks her as he eases down the creaky ladder. His voice has gone dark, that deep, gravelly baritone she associates with handcuffs and rougher encounters. She jumps and swings herself upward, landing on the platform above him. 

“You’re not taking the car?” she asks. He shakes his head. 

“I’ve got business here tonight. A lead on a new case is pointing to the Bowery.” Catwoman runs up the remaining seven flights of metal stairs with astonishing silence, Batman on her heels. “I was planning to apprise you of it tonight anyway,” he continues when they reach the roof. “Nightwing is meeting us there. He should be able to fill us in on anything he or Oracle may have found between now and last night.” 

“Great, so we get to face the kids ahead of schedule.” She scowls into the distance. “Wonderful.” 

“I expect them to keep things professional for the time being. We have a case to solve.” 

“So you’re just going to leave the car there while we do this?” They reach the roof, and leap the gap between this building and the next. 

“It’s safe,” he says shortly. 

“Do you often park two streets over from my apartment?” He banks right and she lets him take the lead.

“I don’t normally start patrol in the East End anymore. It’s been a long time. Usually, the car stays out of the city limits, unless I need to be somewhere, fast.” She snickers, unfurling her whip.

“And here, I always thought it had a cloaking device.” 

They leap into open air, his grappling gun shooting, her whip cracking, and then the both of them are sailing through the night sky, wind and the lingering scent of diesel whipping around their frames. With a practiced flick of her wrist, Catwoman loosens her line from around the empty flagpole and lands, perfectly poised twenty yards further, on the next rooftop. Batman lands beside her and they continue running. 

“It does,” he says in passing, as they bound across the eastern tip of the city. 

“Of course it does,” Catwoman mutters, launching her next line. 

The buildings pass in a steady blur. They make good time, but the minutes seem to stretch into something longer. The punishing exercise regimes they both keep in pursuit of their respective goals are, however secretly, intended to consume time and thought, transforming them into action and results, and allowing for memories and unpleasant truths to be pushed aside. In truth, it is a lonely experience. 

However, in the hush of their trek, a familiar air of companionship begins to take hold. They’ve always worked well together, at least while ‘on the job.’ Neither of them really understands why, or even when it started. First, it was the chase, and then it was… well, still a chase, but as a team, and with a clearer target. There are plenty of theories, circulated mainly amongst the rogues and various gossip magazines for the confused psychopath and bored citizen, respectively. Personally, Selina has always wondered if it isn’t simply that they both enjoy the rooftops. They are comfortable in the dark, freest when in the wind. It’s a simple pleasure, but it’s theirs as much as anything else is. In some ways, it’s more. 

Now, if only they could get their daylight personas to make as much sense.

Their destination turns out to be an old bank building on Richter Street, long since converted to a makeshift homeless shelter, one of the few truly honest facilities of its kind in the city. The roof is easy-access for nighttime vigilantes, lots of shadows and convenient hidey-holes. Strictly low-security. 

Batman leads Catwoman to an old ventilation unit, oversized and outdated, its rough exterior corroded from time and water damage. Dick is good, but she still sees him, and waves a hand lazily in his direction. A shadow shifts beneath the metal overhang, and Nightwing emerges from the gloom, his lips shut tight against some expression he doesn’t want her – or his adoptive father – to see. Bruce goes to stone beside her. 

“You found her,” he says. It isn’t a question. Nightwing nods grimly.

“Patrol car responding to a report of scavengers circling a dumpster in Rochester Square found the body about an hour ago. Police scanners confirm the details. It’s the same M.O.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Yes.” Nightwing looks away, toward the distant blur of Gotham’s Red Light district. His dark hair is cut shorter now, per officer regulations. His blue eyes are hidden behind a black domino mask, but Catwoman knows him, watched him grow up – beneath the lenses, those eyes are grieving. “You were right.” 

“Right about what?” she asks uneasily. 

“The case I was telling you about earlier,” Batman replies, his voice devoid of emotion. “Serial murderer. Targets young women, prostitutes. Lorelei Adams, the most recent victim, has just confirmed my suspicions about the killer’s pattern of behavior.” 

“Why the hell haven’t I heard about this?” Alarm colors her tone. Catwoman is the one, out of all of them, with her ear closest to the street. She deals in information. This should have been on her radar with the first death. 

“The killer has so far only been active in Bludhaven,” Nightwing answers her. “Otherwise, you probably would’ve been the one to tell us about it.” Catwoman’s eyes narrow slightly.

“I thought the sex trade was dying down in Bludhaven,” she says. Nightwing sighs.

“It was. Until some new drug lord decided to expand his operation into international sex-trafficking. We’ve got the ports monitored, but I’ve still got my hands full with cleaning up the police department itself. Any number of crooked cops still left on the force could be letting them through.”

“In the meantime,” Batman says. “Someone is murdering girls and getting away with it.” Dick visibly cringes. 

“What does all of this have to do with me,” Catwoman asks, looking between the two of them. “I’m more than willing to help you out if you need it, but… I was sort of under the impression that Bludhaven was a personal score for the baby bird.” 

“The killer is obviously working in Bludhaven,” Batman says, “but we believe he – if it is a man - is operating out of the Bowery.”

“’If it’s a man?’” Catwoman looks sideways at him. “You have reason to believe a woman is doing this?” 

“Actually… no.” Catwoman raises an eyebrow. 

“You have some idea who it might be?” He does not look at her, but continues to stare tensely into the middle distance.

“I have an idea of who the victim is,” he says. 

“What?” She exclaims, turning to him fully. “Bats, you’re not making sense. You just said the police got a positive ID on the girl – what, are you saying you think you know his next target?” 

“Not exactly.” There is a strange edge to his tone. His posture is stiff. Defensive. Catwoman’s blood goes suddenly cold. She recognizes this. It’s subtle, but it’s there. 

The Batman is afraid.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

Bruce – and it is Bruce, just for a moment – looks her straight in the eye.

“The killer’s victims,” he says meaningfully, “are all female, between the ages of 20 and 34, averaging five feet, five inches in height. Body types are all described as ‘petite, with significant curves,” and skin tones as ‘pale olive.’ All have dark hair, cut short.” 

It takes a moment to sink in. Selina stares at him. He stares back. Neither of them breathes.

“So,” she says finally, quietly. “You really were at that gala last night to protect me.” He hesitates, then nods.

“I… had to know. Had to make sure – to reaffirm.” It had been like waking up from a nightmare too realistic to brush off. The need to see her again, to prove… 

“… and why you didn’t leave,” she adds. “Last night.” He doesn’t respond to that one. 

“Whoever this is,” Knightwing cuts in. “He – and I really do think it’s a ‘he’ – is targeting your look-alikes among Bludhaven’s working girls. It’s why we didn’t see the pattern until now. Hell, the cops didn’t even know they had a serial until the third victim. There could be more we don’t even know about, going back who knows how long. He doesn’t strike unless he finds someone who matches your description, so most of his attacks are years apart.” Selina bows her head.

“And with Bludhaven’s recent influx of prey…” she surmises. “How many?”

“Lorelei makes four that we know of.” She nods.

“So,” she says, her expression setting like cement. “He knows who I am?” 

“No,” Batman replies quickly. “The eyes…” he looks at Nightwing, as though daring him to disagree. “The eyes are never right. Blue or brown. Never green.”

“You don’t think he’s just settling for the closest match he can find,” she inquires darkly. Batman shakes his head.

“He cut their hair. A hack job, but still – he’s that particular about the match. He’s been willing to wait up to six years between attacks for the right one to come along. Someone that detail-oriented would never settle for an imperfection if they knew better. At the very least, he would likely have made them wear contacts.”

“How do you know --?”

“No evidence,” he cuts her off sharply. “He’s seen you, to be sure, up close and personal. But not as Selina Kyle.” Her lips purse.

“So the bastard has met Catwoman.”

“That’s what we’re thinking,” Nightwing agrees. Selina shakes her head.

“How can you be sure of this?” she asks. “How do you know he’s not obsessing over someone else? I think you would have mentioned if he’d dressed them up in a latex catsuit. He hasn’t carved my name anywhere, no big declarations of revenge. How do you even know I’m the one he’s after?” Batman’s eyes are freezing as he puts a heavy hand on her shoulder, as though threatening to shake belief into her. 

“They were raped and tortured, Selina. Mutilated. Using whips and short, curved blades – claws. It’s you.” 

Catwoman stands perfectly still, her expression clean of any emotion.

“He won’t catch me,” she says stonily.

“That isn’t the point,” Batman growls. 

“Look,” Nightwing says, coming closer. “It’s not about whether you can handle yourself against some psycho – we all know you can. But we need your help to catch the bastard. He hasn’t left any useable DNA at any of the crime scenes, no fingerprints, not even a discarded movie ticket. You’re our only real lead at this point. He has to have met you, or why attach himself to you like this?”

“Because I’m every male’s wet dream, running around, stealing and kicking ass in skintight leather in the middle of the night,” she suggests acidly. “I assure you, he would not be the first to take an interest.” They both very deliberately avoid looking at Bruce. 

“Selina, come on. What are the chances? Just help us out here – give us a place to start looking.”

“You want a place to start?” she exclaims, rather louder than she intended. “Let’s try every random thug who ever crossed my path in the last thirteen years! Sorry, but I don’t keep nice, meticulous records of my outings like you Bat Boys do.”

“You know how this works – anything you can think of, anything you can remember that might give us a clue. We’re going to catch him. It will all be alright if you just--.”

“No, it’s not ‘alright!’” She shouts, her hands curving into claws. “Nothing about this is ‘alright!’ There’s some psychopath out there raping and murdering women who look like me!” 

“It’s not your fault--.”

“Of course it’s not my fault,” she snaps. “It’s this damned, useless ‘justice’ system you love so much. I don’t leave sickos on the streets – I turn them in, just like you do. If I did mess this guy up for something in the past, he damn well should have gone to jail!” 

“Maybe he did. But we can’t know unless we look,” Nightwing says, placing a hand on her arm. She jerks away from him.

“Don’t give me that patronizing crap, kid,” she says. “I’m not the victim here.”

“Yet.” The word rings like an iron bell. 

Batman’s declaration hangs in the air between them, the atmosphere very abruptly full of something silky and treacherous. 

“Ever,” Catwoman purrs. 

They stare at one another. There is a very long, very tense beat. 

“So…” Nightwing mumbles eventually, glancing between the two older vigilantes warily. It appears that they will not be attempting to rend one another limb from limb just yet. “You’ll help us?” Catwoman straightens slowly out of a nearly-imperceptible crouch, her anger cooling somewhat. She must be satisfied in having made her point. 

“Of course,” she says. 

“Great.”

Catwoman steps over an ancient broken crate of what looks like whiskey, most of its bottles cracked and broken, then leaps onto the air conditioning unit above them. She leans back against its marred surface, crossing her legs.

“So,” she says, pointedly ignoring the Bat looming several feet away. “Update me. What makes you think the bastard’s operating out of the Bowery?” 

“The last victim,” Batman answers her, equally pointedly. “Time of death was placed at two days before the discovery of the body. The coroner’s report has yet to be released, but I’m betting the girl was held for three days, and then dumped. That pattern would fit the other two. And it's more than likely that the latest girl suffered the same fate.”

“Go on.” He takes a breath, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Two days ago, the night we believe Lorelei was killed and her body left in that dumpster, there was a complaint filed at 2:17 AM with the Bludhaven Rail Authority. It mentioned a suspicious character on the twelve-twenty train to Gotham, with direct transfer to Richter Street in the Bowery. The description alleged that the man was wearing a long grey trench coat, oversized. And he was injured, cradling his left arm.”

“Not to rain on the evidence parade,” Catwoman drawls. “But isn’t this all rather circumstantial?” Batman eyes her steadily. 

“The complainant also thought he may have had some sort of scar on one cheek.” 

“Oh,” she perks up slightly. “That’s… mildly interesting.” 

“Why,” Nightwing asks, perplexed. 

“Ah…” she chuckles darkly. “Before your time, kid.”

“Catwoman used to mark her prey,” Batman supplies. “In the early days. Four parallel gouges. Usually on the face or chest.”

“Hell, she’s done that to you plenty of times,” Dick shrugs. Catwoman smiles coyly. “So, you think this might be an old foe,” he continues. “That would fit one possible timeline.”

“We can’t be sure,” Catwoman reminds him. “Bats here has left his fair share of permanent reminders on the various ne’er-do-wells of Gotham. Hell, the guy could’ve gotten it in a street fight half a century ago. But,” she allows, serious again. “Yes. It’s possible. I only marked the ones who deserved it. But even then, it’s… a longer list than I like to admit. Falcone got his, and so did a few rapists and especially unsavory loan sharks; a random thug or two who really needed to learn how to behave around a lady; A couple of drug dealers… and a pimp or six. ” Batman shakes his head.

“We’ve searched the archives. If he’s in the system, he’s never been booked for anything related to Catwoman, murder, or rape – at least not with an M.O. anything like this one. But I’ll have Oracle run the stats again, focusing on the possibility of an offender from ten to fifteen years ago. There could be something we’ve missed.” 

“Five years is still a pretty big gap,” Dick says. 

“Narrow it down to those known to be currently living in or around the Bowery,” Batman suggests. “That should shorten the list considerably.” Catwoman shifts into a crouch.

“I guess you can tell her to scan for guys with Cat scratches on their ugly mugs, if you think it’ll help. I can look over the results, see if anything rings a bell. Should be a trip.” 

“Thank you,” Nightwing says. She shrugs off the gratitude. 

“Thank me if it works. Otherwise, I’ve just helped you run down another dead end.” 

“It’s a place to start,” he says, moving toward the edge of the building. “I’m keeping my route tight around the Bowery tonight. But I have to be back in the ‘Haven by sundown tomorrow. I’m not letting that sick freak grab any more girls on my turf.”

“You need to sleep, Nightwing,” Bruce admonishes. His adoptive son scoffs. 

“Like you’re one to talk. See you back at the Cave.” Then he steps off and disappears into the night. Selina hops down from the unit, raising her goggles, and sidles up to Bruce. She stops closer than necessary.

“Well, this explains a lot,” she says dryly. He sighs, looking down into her face. His hand twitches, as though fighting some urge, then drifts to her forehead, brushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes. 

“Are you angry with me?” She snorts.

“Would it change anything if I was?” Bruce takes a deep breath, thinking. 

“It… would certainly make the situation more difficult. Unnecessarily complicated. I would prefer that we continue with the current protocol. It really is, logically, the most sound.”

“Yeah, now I see why you think that.” He huffs, his voice growing marginally louder.

“Even without the current circumstances of the case, Wayne Manor is still the safest and most convenient place to try… to continue our…”

“Courtship?” she supplies. “Tryst? Fool’s Errand?” 

“What have you.” 

“And with the case, Wayne Manor is the perfect box to keep me in until you catch the big, bad wolf.”

“You wouldn’t be confined to quarters. Catwoman will still be active in Gotham.”

“Just not Selina Kyle.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Would you be going out as Selina Kyle if you were staying anywhere else?” She crosses her arms.

“I might.”

“I know you better. You’d skip town. Possibly leave the country. Assume another identity until the media storm died down.”

He’s not wrong. If it weren’t for their burgeoning relationship, she would be gone right now. But then… if not for that kiss last night, she wouldn’t be needing to lay low in the first place. Strange, how life twists in on itself like that sometimes. 

He is watching her closely. They both know that she could change her mind any minute, and there’s not a damn thing he could do to stop her. She could leave. Right now. 

Why doesn’t she leave? 

“I guess I like being in your shit-storm of a life,” she says finally, then sighs. “God knows why. Guess I’m a glutton for punishment.” He shifts closer to her for a moment, rests an arm at her waist. She’s warm beneath the smooth, black material. 

“While I sincerely hope that that last part may be proved untrue,” he says quietly. “I… appreciate your staying. Whatever keeps you here.”

They’re dancing around the word. Saying everything but. 

Huh.

They said it easily enough last night. But now they’re avoiding it, like they’re avoiding eye contact, refusing to say – 

“I love you.” Selina startles, looks up. The words are solid, softly spoken, but with a fierce conviction. Coming out of his mouth, they can’t be anything but true. 

“I love you,” she returns, tasting the unfamiliar words in Catwoman’s voice. She wonders if the moment is as surreal for him as it is for her. Knowing him, it’s probably more so. She wonders if he’s suppressing internal hyperventilation.

He said it. He’s trying. 

There was a time – a recent time – when they never said those words out loud. Not even when they were alone, even in the hushed atmosphere of a darkened bedroom. And certainly never on patrol. It was a silent understanding between the two of them, something to hold onto in the depths of hell, and otherwise deny.

Now, it’s like they’re repeating it to prove a point. To reaffirm what they already know. Voicing the promise. Making it solid, touchable… not just an understanding, but an action. 

Damn, that’s a terrifying thought. 

“So,” Selina tries, when the silence has stretched too long. “Do we focus on the Bowery, or leave it to Dick tonight?” Bruce straightens, resuming the stance of the Bat. 

“No. I was hoping to have a targeted zone to investigate this time. But there isn’t much for us to do without more information. Nightwing and the others have it covered for now. You and I should maintain our regular routes.” She rests her weight on one leg, bringing a hand to her hip as a smirk lights her features. 

“What, not sticking around the East End this evening? Rogues giving you trouble in the Diamond District?” Now it’s his turn to snort in amusement. 

“That particular sector has been relatively quiet since a certain cat burglar retired from petty theft.”

“Please, my thefts are never anything less than grand.” A challenging smile darts across his lips and disappears. 

“I suppose I can help out here tonight,” he says. “Your neighborhood has been unsettlingly active lately, even for the East End. It might be a good thing to remind the criminals who else there is to fear in this city. And that way, we can both take the car back to the Cave. Save time.”

In other words, he wants to be there to make sure she doesn’t renege on their deal. Well, fuck it. She likes company on patrol. Even his perpetual brooding is nice in small doses. 

“Batgirl can take my shift tonight,” he continues. “I’ll have Oracle call Tim out, if he’s available.” 

“What about the littlest bird,” Selina asks, a little surprised by the hint of fondness in her own voice.

“Damian is… he works with Dick occasionally. He has express orders to stay at the manor tonight. We’re all a little… preoccupied.” 

“Poor kid,” she chuckles. “I’ll bet he’s seething.”

“Hmm.” 

Selina takes a breath and jumps to the guardrail at the edge of the roof, balancing on the balls of her feet. 

“Well then, let’s go, Stud,” she says in Catwoman’s low growl. “If we’re going to do this, we’d best start before the sun comes up. We’ll miss all the good felonies.” He gives her what might be a smirk, and follows her over the lip of the building without another word. 

Their lines catch, and they are off, racing across the city’s skyline, toward the sound of sirens.


	8. Long Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unlucky goons, unfortunate drug dealers, and some very unwelcome news: in other words, a pretty standard night out for Gotham's most notorious power couple.

“That’s not fair,” Catwoman snickers, raising her whip. “You’re definitely at a disadvantage with that thing.” 

“Shut up, bitch,” the man replies, pointing a long knife at her abdomen. “I’ll do the talking.” 

“Will you now,” she purrs. The whip snakes out before the man has a chance to blink, wrapping itself around his neck with a sound like a slap. His eyes go wide as Catwoman wrenches him forward to slam her knee into the bridge of his nose. The gun falls to the cement with a clatter, its owner following suit. 

“I usually save that move for the big guy over there,” Catwoman says conversationally, indicating the Batman, currently engaged in combat with three large thugs. The man groans in response and curls himself into a ball. His shaved head gleams in the ambient light of the warehouse. Catwoman shrugs, pulling her whip free of his fat neck. “Need any help over there, Handsome?” she calls. 

“Well, if you’re in a giving mood,” Batman grunts, grabbing two heavily-tattooed arms from around his rib cage and flipping the man over his head. Catwoman cartwheels into the fray, leaping gracefully to his side.

“I can think of a few other things I’d like to give you,” she murmurs seductively. “But, if you insist –.” Her leg connects sharply with the jaw of an oncoming goon, sending him reeling. “I suppose I can settle for saving your ass.” Batman doesn’t reply.

“You bitch,” the aforementioned goon spits, clutching his bleeding face. Catwoman sighs. 

“You boys really need to come up with more creative insults. That one just doesn’t do it for me anymore.” Two more ‘boys,’ big ones, advance toward her from either side, grinning with discolored teeth. She flips, locks a leg around the bleeding man’s head and brings him down, hard, landing above him on her hands and knees. The two larger thugs careen toward her, arms outstretched. She ducks and their bodies connect with a meaty thunk. Catwoman rolls out of the way as the two men fall to the ground, landing on their prone companion with a synchronicity worthy of applause. “Oh, it’s been too long since I pulled off one of those,” she grins, rising to her feet as the last thug, weaponless and unconscious, sails over her head and into the wall. 

“This sector’s clear,” Batman says flatly. Catwoman turns to him with a smirk. 

“Ready for the next one?” He starts to nod, but freezes, his expression turning inward. He touches a finger to his cowl’s earpiece, listening to something Selina can’t hear. 

“Oracom?” she mouths. He nods, still focused on his one-sided conversation. Catwoman resigns herself to a wait, glancing around the empty warehouse for something to occupy her attention. Her gaze settles onto a dirt-encrusted window set into the far wall, its panes revealing a lacework of smog scuttling across the moon outside. 

A yellow circle of light appears, competing with the heavenly body for space against the clouds. A darkness in its center sharpens as heavy fog rolls in from the bay, taking on its customary points and edges. 

The Signal. 

“Bats…” she says. He looks up at her sharply. “You’re being paged.” He moves to stand next to her, following her gaze to the window, and stiffens. 

“So it would seem.” His lips thin. 

“What did Oracle have to say?” 

“No new breaks in the case. She’ll be running the other information separately from the hunch about the Cat scratches, so we’ll end up with two suspect pools. Hopefully, something will overlap and form a connection.” He looks at the signal burning in the sky, then turns to her. “Can you finish up here without me?”

“I have been known to do that very thing on occasion,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Only for, say, the past five years.” 

“I didn’t mean --,” 

“I know.” She dismisses his concern, pecking him fondly on the cheek. “It’s called a sense of humor. You could afford to purchase one.” He stands uncertainly before her for a moment. She rolls her eyes. “Go on. Duty calls.” 

He palms the back of her head, kissing her briefly before letting her go. 

“I’ll meet you back at the car at 2:00 am.” 

“Roger that.” She sighs. “Tell Gordon I say ‘hi.’” He nods again, but she knows he has stopped listening. A swirl of cape, a nearly inaudible footfall, and Batman is gone. 

Catwoman’s ears perk up at the sound of approaching sirens. She stretches, glancing around one last time before sprinting for the window. It raises with a screech, paint peeling away from its frame, and sticks halfway. She slips through without a sound, tosses herself upward into a curl, and lands lightly on the roof. She watches as the red and blue lights grow closer, encircling the building, before leaping to the next warehouse and making her escape. 

She runs south, toward the very center of Gotham’s seediest quarter, scanning for disturbances along the way. 

“The next stop on our tour, everyone’s favorite little dark corner,” she mutters to herself, launching her whip into the air. “Crime Alley.”

 

***** 

Batman lands on the roof of the Gotham City Police Department, keeping to the shadows at the edge of the building. The Bat Signal is still on, releasing heat and a faint electronic hum into the night. Commissioner Gordon stands alone by its side, his trench coat closed against the chill of late January. Batman moves toward him, speaking before allowing himself to be seen. 

“Commissioner.”

“Jesus!” Jim nearly jumps out of his skin, whirling on the voice. “Will you never grow tired of that shtick?” He shakes his head. “Fifteen years… even when I’m expecting it…” He looks up as Batman oozes into the light. 

“You have news?” the vigilante asks. His voice is dark, but not inhospitable. Gordon nods. 

“You won’t like it,” he says, stubbing out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. 

“It’s never good news, Jim.” The older man sighs.

“Damn right about that. But this one --,” something in his eyes changes, turns brutal. “This one’s a real peach. Two years, we had him in custody… thought we finally nailed the sick sonofabitch for good. Should have known...” He looks up into the cowl’s blank white lenses, his own eyes hard. “It’s happened. The Joker escaped from Arkham. Again.” 

All the air leaves Bruce’s lungs. He struggles with himself, remaining perfectly still while rage and disbelief roil like a poison beneath Batman’s impenetrable surface. 

No. Not this. Not now… 

He swallows, fighting to maintain composure. Putting his fist through the Bat Signal, he reminds himself, would only make matters worse. There would be glass shards and broken knuckles, possibly stitches… 

“How long,” he manages, his voice tight. 

“Day and a half,” Gordon shrugs. “Arkham report’s still being faxed.” 

“Shit,” Batman hisses. Thirty-four hours. Thirty-four hours at least, Gotham’s premier homicidal maniac has been free to slither into the darkest crevice in the city, biding his time, setting his trap, waiting for the unsuspecting masses to fall into his clutches. For Batman to hunt him down and find whatever horrors he has planned, his deranged mind’s version of a sick joke. 

Batman looks at Jim Gordon, his wife murdered and his daughter crippled by the madman. Gordon, just one of thousands – thousands! – of people whose lives have been ruined by the self-proclaimed Clown Prince of Crime. 

Batman rests a heavy gloved hand on Jim’s shoulder.

“I’ll take care of it,” he growls. 

 

***** 

 

“Oh, spare me,” Catwoman drawls, unimpressed. “That guy,” she gestures with the handle of her whip, indicating a thin man lying in a crumpled heap, groaning into a pile of split garbage bags. “Took three punches and four seconds to lay out. That one over there? One good kick to the spleen and an elbow to the back of the head. Three seconds, tops. And your big friend here,” she pulls on her whip, tightening its hold around the neck of the man directly below her. “He actually put up a fight, and I still took him down in under ten. Do you really want to keep pushing it?” 

“Shut th’ fuck up, bitch!” the smaller of the two remaining drug dealers exclaims, leveling his revolver. Catwoman shakes her head.

“Again, with the ‘bitch,’” she mutters. The man cocks the weapon. Catwoman leaps. 

The deafening report bounces off the high brick walls of the alley, covering the man’s yelp as her boots connect with his face, propelling him backward. Catwoman rolls low, ducking the radius of the second man’s arms as they reach for her throat. She shoots a look over her shoulder, preparing to continue the attack. 

Just then, a part of the night detaches from the surrounding gloom and lands heavily on the thug, effectively ending his status as ‘threat.’ 

“Hey, Handsome,” Catwoman says casually as he straightens from his impact-absorbing crouch. “Nice timing.” She saunters over to retrieve her whip, socking its latest victim in the mouth, for prudence’s sake. 

“What happened,” Batman asks. Catwoman stands slowly, looking around at her fallen opponents with distaste. 

“Couple of drug dealers. Members of the Red Rogue Gang, most of them. They’d decided to take some of their excess aggression out on an underage prostitute.” Her lip twists into a snarl. “Bastards.”

“Did you get the girl to Child Protective Services?” Catwoman sighs. 

“Boy. And no. He slipped before I’d downed the first thug. And really, can you blame him?” She shakes her head. “CPS hasn’t exactly got the best track record in this town.”

“I’m aware. I’m working on it.” 

“I know,” she smiles slightly. “It’s part of why I like you. I’ll ask Holly to ask around for the kid. Maybe she can get him to take another crack at the System.” 

“Maybe.” 

“So,” she says, crossing her arms. “How was your chat with our enlightened commissioner?” He ignores her question. 

“Are you finished here?” His voice and posture are stiff. Catwoman tilts her head to one side. 

“Yes,” she answers, coming closer. She touches his face, angling it gently toward the light from the street, examining his expression in its meager glow. “So, not a good chat, then,” she concludes, lowering her hand. He looks away.

“No.” She waits a beat.

“Anything in particular you two fight about?” she asks. He shakes his head.

“We didn’t fight.”

“Care to elaborate on that point?” He looks around before taking her arm. 

“We’ll talk about it in the car,” he says quietly. Catwoman raises an eyebrow but decides against arguing with him. 

“Alright.” 

 

***** 

 

The interior of the Other Car is hardly cozy, despite the relatively close quarters; between the huge, ominous control panel on the dashboard and the stony silence of its driver, the vehicle feels too much like a doomed spaceship to be much fun. Selina fidgets in the passenger seat, wondering if the windows are physically capable of being rolled down, and if so, how many hours it would take her to find the right button. Maybe that’s just one of the tradeoffs one makes for missile-proof glass. Permanently closed windows. 

She considers the absurdity of this moment: Catwoman sitting shotgun in the Batmobile, on her way to Wayne Manor to play house with Batman until... until such time as the press decamps from the front gates, or she and Bruce Wayne decide to get married and go public? 

Selina shakes her head. What the hell have they gotten themselves into? She glances over at Bruce, his hands locked in concentration on the steering wheel. His cowl hangs behind him, attached to the cape around his shoulders. Selina’s own sits in her lap, the goggles catching the glow from the streetlamps as they pass at a speed she is fairly certain is illegal. 

The atmosphere is tense, but that’s not quite the right word for it. Without the masks, that erotic air of mystery has dissipated, taking with it all their usual dialogue. They are so used to playing a part – socialite, villain, vigilante, partner - that they have nothing to say, now they find themselves without a script. When they’re not fighting or making grand declarations of undying love, when they’re just two people sitting calmly in a car together, what do they really have to talk about?

There’s something almost mundane about the whole situation – a man driving his girlfriend home after an evening on the town. What could be more normal? 

They are completely out of their element. 

Selina chokes back a laugh as the word finally comes to her. Not tense – awkward. 

“What is it,” Bruce asks, noting her expression in his peripheral vision. 

“I was just thinking,” she chuckles. “Maybe it’s the car – But it feels like we’re on our way to senior prom, or something.”

“I didn’t go to prom,” he deadpans, and her good mood vanishes. She regards him sidelong, matching his tone.

“Neither did I.” Something shifts behind his eyes - recognition of his miscalculation.

“Sorry,” he says, softer now. “That was thoughtless of me.”

“Don’t worry about it, Big Guy,” she murmurs. 

Selina considers how much he really knows about her. About her past. Certainly more than she’s told him – and she’s told him a great deal. There are words he’s heard her say that not even Holly is aware of. Still, she can’t imagine he’s never run a background check on her, declarations of undying love notwithstanding. He is the world's greatest detective, after all. She’s known for a long time that he’s known for a long time. She just doesn’t quite know what or how much. 

“So,” she says, changing the subject. “Were you going to tell me what Gordon wanted, or do I have to wait for the official briefing?” 

Abruptly, Bruce’s face tightens, his shoulders hunkering down as though preparing for an attack. He does not answer her question. Selina’s brows knit together. “Jesus, how big a bomb did the old man drop on you? He’s not dying, is he?” Bruce shakes his head. 

“No. It’s not that.” 

Selina watches him carefully, wondering how far she should push him. As amusing as it is to try, in truth, she is only very rarely able to break him out of one of his moods as easily as she did this afternoon. If the Batman could be swayed by something as simple and artless as sex, he would have fallen to the Catwoman – or Poison Ivy, for that matter – long ago. Hell, the fact that it’s taken them twelve years to finally make an attempt at living together is a testament to his ability to resist those baser desires. As a result, most days it takes a lot more than bedroom eyes and swinging hips to break through his armor – sometimes it’s claws and insults instead. Or long silences just sitting by his side, letting him know he’s not alone, even if he wants to be. 

It’s fairly obvious that her preferred method is not going work this time, and Selina really doesn’t feel like a screaming match. But she’s not willing to back down just yet. 

“I’m getting pretty tired of having to beg for information, Bruce,” she says, keeping her voice as calm and non-threatening as possible. She lets the declaration hang there until he loosens somewhat, exhaling. 

“There has been… a complication,” he says.

“So I gathered.” She drums her fingers against her knee. “You going to tell me what that means?” His jaw locks. 

“The Joker has escaped from Arkham.” 

Selina freezes, her face draining of color. 

“How long?” 

“Almost two days.” 

“Shit,” she hisses. Then her eyes go wide. “Does Babs know?” 

Bruce shakes his head. “I’m waiting to tell the others. We’ll convene in the main cave and discuss the situation.” Selina nods.

She and the former Batgirl aren’t what one might call ‘friends,’ but Selina does care for the younger woman, however guardedly. When she heard about the Joker’s attack and its horrifying consequences, she could hardly believe it. The annoying little redhead who once carried a bat-purse and sailed across the rooftops in an attempt to foil her nefarious schemes, confined to a wheelchair forever. There would be no more juvenile taunts or curious, roundabout questions concerning her confusing relationship with Batman. The girl might as well have been dead.

Some years later, when the notorious catburglar went straight and joined the ranks of Gotham’s resident heroes and madmen, Barbara Gordon’s voice once again rang out with mild insults and demands for intel – but she wasn’t a kid anymore. There is always a hint of regret now, of anger in the voice that comes over the Oracom. Selina doesn’t exactly miss the kid, but it can be difficult sometimes to watch the troubled woman she has become. 

She deserved better. 

“Is that all we know?” Selina continues. “Just that he’s loose?” Bruce grinds his teeth. 

“Currently. Yes.” 

“Great,” she says sarcastically, then sighs. Two serial killers active within a 30-mile radius of one another, both with pathological fixations on certain members of the Bat Family. God. No wonder he wasn’t big on the reveal. “So, how does this affect the Bludhaven investigation? Do we shuffle the troops? Or leave it for Dick to handle, while we go after Joker?” 

“I’ve been debating the options,” he says. “Normally, dividing the ranks only loses points on both fronts. But I am having difficulty… prioritizing. Logically, the Joker is the more immediate threat, between whatever plans he has, and the mass hysteria that will erupt as soon as word gets out that he’s free. 

“But this other killer has been at large and active for close to a decade. And I didn’t know.” He stares at the road in furious disbelief. For a moment, she is afraid he might snap the steering wheel in two. Selina lays a tentative hand on his arm.

“It’s going to be alright, Bruce,” she says. “We will catch them. Both of them.” 

They pass over Gotham Bridge and into the greener hills of the countryside, heading west toward Bristol. The quiet change of scenery does nothing for the mood in the cramped space.

“How did I miss the pattern?” he rumbles. “For ten years!” 

“It couldn’t possibly have been because you were busy?” 

“That isn’t an excuse.” He looks at her, his eyes swimming with guilt. Understanding dawns. Her voice softens.

“He’s not going to get me, Bruce.” His eyes close a moment, then open again, refocusing on the lightening landscape before them. At this rate, they’ll be racing the sun to the Cave. She brushes her fingertips down his arm to his wrist, letting them rest against his hand. 

“I’m not afraid.” 

“I am,” he says gently. Her eyes widen. 

He flips his hand over, lacing her fingers with his own. It is the most he has touched her since coming back from his meeting with Gordon. Something flutters in the pit of her stomach, and she quells it. Not the time. 

“We’re nearing the entrance,” he states. She looks out the windshield. A vast green park stretches out before them, all rolling hills and old growth trees. There is no longer any road, merely a dirt track leading to an old barn at the top of a nearby hill. When they get close, Bruce types a short code into a pad on the dashboard and Selina watches as the battered floor of the barn detaches at the far end and lowers into the ground, forming a ramp. Bruce pilots the large vehicle into the opening, going slowly. The doors all but scrape the edges as they descend. 

“How long has it been since you used this entrance,” Selina asks, dubious. 

“A while,” he answers wryly. “It’s the furthest from the house. I didn’t want to risk being seen by reporters.” 

“Couldn’t we have gone with the waterfall route? It’s – oof!” The car lurches with a mechanical squeal, and drops onto the floor of the pitch-black tunnel. “… less claustrophobic.”

“It also crosses a main road,” he explains ruefully. “This was the prudent choice.” 

“’Prudent,’” she mutters as industrial lights flicker on along the walls, illuminating the way forward. The ramp behind them rises with a grinding sound, becoming once again a rotting wooden floor somewhere above their heads. The tunnel is rectangular, made entirely of cement, and, while wider than its entrance, is still narrow with a very low roof. Selina sighs inwardly, sinking back into her seat, her fingers still locked with Bruce’s. “Onward and upward, then.” 

“Downward, actually,” he comments, throwing the car into gear. 

“Fantastic.” 

“It’s only about eight miles from here.” Her lips quirk. 

“If that’s your idea of a comforting thought, I’ll thank you to rethink your definition of the word.” He shrugs.

“It’s a straight shot. Fifteen minutes.” Selina closes her eyes against her annoyance, letting their hands come to rest against her chest. 

“Just drive, Bats.” 

Smiling slightly, he obliges. He has no idea what they will find once they reach his extended family at headquarters. How much information they will have by now, how much they will have guessed about the sudden shift in his relationship with a certain ex-catburglar. Whatever they suspect, the truth will be confirmed by Selina’s appearance in the Batmobile with him. And then the reactions will start.

Most of them will be confused, some will be angry. One or two of them, lead by Dick, will likely make comments to the effect of “it’s about time.” He has no idea how to explain himself to them. 

But, of course, that point will become moot once he tells them about the new case. If they don’t already know. It is likely that Dick will have heard whatever Barbara has, and if Gordon has filled his daughter in on the Joker’s escape… 

They’re heading straight into a powder keg. But something about Selina’s presence beside him makes the task seem faceable. It’s illogical, but there it is. 

Fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, they arrive at the steel grate that separates this tunnel from the main cave. Another code typed into the dashboard, the great thing rises, and they drive through into the hushed, bluish lighting cast by the two massive Cray computers.

Bruce brushes his thumb along Selina’s knuckles, steeling himself.

It is time to face the lions.


	9. Into the Lions' Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Selina arrive home, but the night is not going how they planned. Who will be an ally, and who an enemy when it's time to face the kids?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time! And I know this isn't an extra-long chapter to make up for my absence, but rest assured, if you're waiting for me to get my ass in gear in terms of this story, I am. As you read this, I'm working on the next chapter, and I'm hoping it'll be as enjoyable as the last ones have been! I really hope you like this newest installment! I almost waited to post it until the next section is completed, but I felt that this was a natural stopping place, and I wanted to give anyone waiting on these releases a ray of hope that I might actually get back to a regular posting schedule. 
> 
> Anyway! I really hope you like this little tidbit! Questions, comments, and critiques welcome!

Selina and Bruce exit the Batmobile, the doors hissing shut of their own accord. 

“It’s about time!” a cheerful voice shouts from the rafters, the sound booming and echoing around the cavernous natural ceiling of the cave. Selina looks up at the still Knightwing-clad Richard Grayson as he drops to the catwalk above the vehicle platform, his teeth flashing in the bluish light of the Cray computer system. Much to Selina’s chagrin, the younger vigilante is positively beaming. Then he catches sight of Bruce’s face.

“What is it?” Dick asks, instantly sobered. Bruce shakes his head. 

“Not here.” He says, beginning the long trek up the ramp to the main floor of the cave. "Call a meeting. This is a matter that concerns everyone.” Dick rubs his arm nervously. Bruce doesn’t miss the tick. He stops mid-stride, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

Dick hesitates. 

“Actually, that's what I was going to tell you. Ah…” He clears his throat. “They’re already here.”

“What?” Bruce exclaims. Selina goes to stone beside him. The others obviously don’t know about Joker’s escape, so why… oh no.

“The call was sent out about an hour ago,” Dick elaborates. “They’re waiting upstairs.” He jumps down to their level, landing a bit heavily on his feet. “I elected to warn you.”

Bruce risks a glance in Selina’s direction. She looks ready to bolt. They had not expected an ambush. He closes his eyes, rests a hand on the railing beside him. 

“Who authorized the call?” He inquires tiredly, rubbing his temple, knowing the answer. Dick eyes him warily before replying.

“Babs.” 

Selina breathes a tiny “ah” of understanding. “And so it begins,” she murmurs. A dull ache begins in Bruce’s chest at the sadness in that sound. Dick, too, looks his concern.

“It won’t get bad, Selina,” he murmurs. But she hears the doubt in his words, and he knows it. “She just wants to address a few… points.”

“We’ve addressed these points before,” the Catwoman replies wryly. “Although I’ll admit, I didn’t think she’d bring the kids into it.” 

“It’s a family issue,” Dick tries. 

“It’s my issue,” she retorts, uncharacteristically sharp with him. “Our love life is not up for the vote.” Dick takes a breath to reply, but Bruce interrupts, his tone hardening.

“Barbara’s ‘intervention’ is going to have to wait,” he says, turning to make his way up the ramp once more. “We’ve got bigger problems.” Dick frowns.

“What kind of problems?” He asks, moving to follow Bruce. 

Selina puts a hand on his arm, bringing him up short. Dick blinks. Despite her being nearly a foot shorter than him, the woman can be incredibly parental sometimes. It’s odd. Dick wonders if she even knows she does it. 

“I’ll give you a hint,” she says quietly, breaking into his musings. “It won’t make you smile.” She trails Bruce up the ramp. 

Dick’s face drains white.

“Shit.” 

Selina follows Bruce up the narrow, winding staircase, the both of them having mutually bypassed the elevator in favor of this slower, more taxing route to the main house. She feels numb, her thoughts reduced to a buzz at the back of her skull. 

They’re here. All of them, the whole of Bruce’s patchwork, extended family. All the sidekicks, the children, the broken birds she’s watched grow up and grow brittle on the streets of this thankless city. They don’t understand her, and several of them have made it quite clear that they don’t intend to. While not all of them are hostile, Selina is pretty damn sure that not one among them has any kind of clue what the hell she is doing in their exclusive little family. Dick may like what she does for his father, but he doesn’t understand it. And while Tim has apparently expressed his support for her privately, he’s never elected to let her in on the joke. Barbara despises her, Cassandra may as well be wallpaper, and Damian… oh lord, Damian. The poor kid doesn’t see her as anything more than competition for his own woefully inadequate mother.

So that’s what she’s got. Two kids who hate her, two who might like her, but couldn’t say why if you gave them a dictionary, and one who, if she has an opinion, probably wouldn’t give it to you if you threatened her with the rack. And these people are here, now, in this house, for the express purpose of judging her personal worth to Bruce Wayne. 

Fantastic.

It’s a good move on Babs’ part, Selina supposes. If the former Batgirl wants Catwoman out of Bruce’s life, the quickest way to that end is through his kids. And Selina can’t deny that there might be something to whatever grievances Barbara Gordon apparently has with her. Selina Kyle has committed many sins in her rather erratic life, maybe more than anyone could be expected to forgive her for. Barbara Gordon is no saint, and lord knows Selina’s managed to piss off even a few of those. 

For his part, Bruce appears to be furiously strategizing as they emerge into the warmth of Wayne Manor’s enormous kitchen pantry. The smell of bread and wood varnish is welcoming, even as the sound of muffled conversation from beyond the kitchen doors ties Selina’s stomach into knots. It’s almost funny – armed robbers, mad scientists, and psycho killers? No problem. But put her in a room with a bunch of unarmed, judgmental teenagers, and she’s sweating in her catsuit. Speaking of which… 

“Wish we’d had a chance to change out of the war paint,” she says to Bruce.

“Why?” he retorts, raising an eyebrow. “We’re going to war.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Your kids know you talk about them like a tactical exercise?” she asks. He tilts his head to one side.

“Only when they’re plotting nefarious schemes behind my back.” Selina almost smiles.

“Granted.” 

She watches his face. He seems calm enough, but that could be an illusion. There’s really no telling how he’ll react to Barbara’s impromptu coup de grace. God willing, they won’t be looking at another feud. 

“Sir,” a poised tenor voice calls softly, surprising them. “And, might I presume, Madame? Would you care to exit the pantry in the near future?” 

“Alfred,” Selina exclaims, stepping forward into the kitchen proper. The warm yellow light bounces off of the pristine counters and appliances, and shines through the thinning, but no less distinguished, grey hair of Sir Alfred Pennyworth. 

The irreproachable Wayne butler is waiting, dressed and coifed, with a pile of delectable-looking edibles beside him on the spotless marble island. He greets them with a warm smile. 

“Miss Kyle. Master Wayne. Welcome home.” Selina appreciates his simple sincerity almost as much as she appreciates the smell of food coming from the oven. 

“Bless you, Alfred.” Selina grins. The balding, grey head dips formally, hiding the approving twinkle in his eye. 

“Thank you, Miss Kyle,” he responds. “A late dinner will be served shortly. But first,” his demeanor falters, just slightly. “It would appear we have guests.” 

Bruce harrumphs. Selina turns toward the closed doors leading into the parlor. The low murmur in the next room continues, one voice in particular rising above the others, vaguely identifiable as Dick’s. He must have taken the clock entrance. A female voice responds, the words lost in the wood. 

Babs. 

Bruce comes to stand beside Selina, putting an arm around her shoulders. She looks so small against him. Fragile. He doesn’t understand how his own family can treat her as though she were a threat. He’s more than seen her in action, knows better than anyone exactly how threatening Selina Kyle can be. She makes the Riddler quake in his boots. But Bruce knows who she is. And he’s tired of constantly having to prove it to everyone else. He can’t imagine Selina feels any differently. 

“We’re getting too old for this,” he sighs. 

“You’re getting too old?” Alfred says skeptically from behind them. “Try being my age. 

“Sorry, Alfred,” Selina chuckles. “I’m never aging a day over 29. Him, on the other hand…”

Bruce snorts, squeezing her once. Then he sobers. They both stare at the door. 

“I’ll handle this, Selina,” he says quietly. “This isn’t the time for private drama.”

“Too many costumed psychos to deal with,” she supplies. He nods. She exhales. “Best not keep them waiting, then.”

“Quite right, madam,” Alfred says, stepping past them. “Good luck, my girl,” he whispers quickly, just before throwing back the double doors and exposing them to the room beyond. Selina gulps as the crosshairs of five guarded vigilantes come to rest heavily upon her.

And so it begins.


	10. Derailed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara Gordon has a case against Selina Kyle, and a plan to execute it. She has spent too long protecting this family to watch someone tear it up from the inside. But Catwoman is not what she expected, and the Batman is bringing home news to knock the air out of everyone's lungs. 
> 
> This is not how this meeting was supposed to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! The rest of the chapter! 
> 
> The reason this one in particular took so long to write is because I was still getting the feel of each character. This is the first chapter with the entire Bat Family in it, and I wanted to do each of them justice to the best of my ability. Although this chapter mainly focuses on particular members, rest assured that I have plans to highlight the entire Bat Family individually, in later chapters. 
> 
> A short note on Barbara Gordon: I have found that I have the most trouble writing this character. It took me quite some time to work out her quirks, her opinions, her tone of voice - and most importantly, her motives - all those things that make up her personality. I have never written her before this chapter, and I am very nervous about my depiction of her. My favorite incarnation of the character is her Oracle persona, and so that is the version that I have chosen for this story. I find her the most interesting and complicated when tragically confined to the wheelchair. The disability forces her to learn new things, new perspectives and ways of behaving so as to be seen and heard as more than just a cripple. But these challenges and this growth also provide room for the creation and exploration of character flaws. There is a sense of accomplishment in what she does, but also a need to prove herself, as well as a troubling inner turmoil between who she is, and who she would like to be, on a fundamental level. I had to explore this labyrinth of darker motives that Barbara Gordon herself does not often look at, in order to find how to write my version of her. I hope I accomplished that goal.
> 
> I hope you like this latest installment! Comments and critiques really welcome on this one!

The room goes absolutely silent, the chatter snuffed out like a candle. All eyes turn instantly to Bruce and Selina, staring with the keen interest of a firing squad. 

The first thing Selina notices is that Damian is absent. Strange. She hadn’t realized that she had been looking for him. Whatever the meaning of the small, angry child’s nonappearance in this lineup, it can’t be good. But there is no time to consider this particular ill omen, and she pulls her focus to the others. 

The little one, Cassandra, is situated partially behind Tim, not exactly hiding, rather caught between a greeting and the urge, instilled from birth by some crazed parental figure, to mask her presence as an assassin. Bruce never has given her the whole story on that one, but Selina doesn’t hold it against him. Not his story to tell, she supposes. Selina can appreciate that. 

For his part, Tim waves genially at her, a small smile on his closed lips. She raises an eyebrow at him, matching his expression.

Dick, grinning like an idiot, steps forward to clap his adoptive father on the back. 

“Good to see you’ve finally removed your head from your ass,” he says theatrically. “I’m ecstatic for you.” 

Selina watches his face closely. The expression looks effortless, but the telltale twitch of muscle in his jaw belies his strain to keep it in place. It’s the same look he used to give Bruce when Batman would order Robin back to the car at the beginning of a Catwoman chase. 

He’s pretending for them, setting the stage. Which means he hasn’t told the others the news.

Selina does not miss Dick’s pointed look at Barbara Gordon, sitting front and center in Bruce’s massive armchair. Instead of dwarfing the small woman, it manages to lend her a distinct air of authority, and she wears her red hair like a crown of flame against the soft brown leather. It’s quite the effect, and she knows it. 

Even so, Selina’s eyes go immediately to a small metal object, neatly folded and tucked discreetly in the corner. 

The wheelchair. 

Selina’s stomach flips. She puts on a smile to mask it, and immediately has to wonder where Dick got that trick. 

“Subtle, kid,” she chuckles in reply to his joke. 

“You’re one to talk,” Barbara’s clipped tone rings out accusingly. Though she is much shorter than any of them, confined as she is to the chair, she is the most imposing and clearly the most hostile of the group. “Getting your dirty laundry splashed all over the front page of every newspaper in Gotham is not what I’d call ‘subtle.’” 

Her anger is clearly directed at both of the older vigilantes, but she only looks at Selina when she voices it. Selina’s smile goes tight.

“Touché,” she returns coolly. Dick places a hand on Barbara’s shoulder. She shakes it off. 

“She shouldn’t be here,” Babs says, addressing Bruce at last. 

“My personal business is none of your concern,” he replies in a tone designed to end all discussion. “Nor is it fodder for gossip.”

“That’s ripe, considering the whole town has been talking about it since five o’clock this morning!” She crosses her arms. “Your decisions – all decisions – affect us all, whether we’re ‘allowed’ to talk about it, or not. We deserve a say in this.”

Tim shifts uncomfortably. Cassie, though, appears riveted, watching the exchange in fascination. Selina half expects her to pull out a pen and start taking notes.

“Babs,” Dick murmurs, concerned. 

“Dick!” She exclaims in return. “She’s a criminal!” 

“Was,” Batman maintains. 

“Is,” Selina counters mildly, shrugging. “Occasionally.”

“Do you hear her?” Barbara asks, incredulous. 

“Enough,” Bruce declares, the word coming down like an iron wall. “This is not open for debate.”

Selina considers disagreeing with him. After all, the redhead has a point – their leader’s choices do, inevitably, affect them all. Admittedly, it’s flattering to watch Bruce attempt to defend her honor against the accusations of his eldest adoptive daughter, but in truth, she isn’t particularly fond of the idea of driving yet another wedge between the two. There are enough of them already.

But Barbara isn’t done.

“The Manor is no place for thieves,” she says coldly. “The Cave is no place for tenured members of the Rogues’ Gallery.” 

“Barbara,” Bruce orders sharply. “Drop it.”

“Bruce--!” 

“The Joker has escaped from Arkham.” 

His voice clangs like a death bell in the suddenly airless room. All that’s missing is the lightning flash. Barbara has gone silent, and white as a sheet. 

“No…” Her voice is barely audible.

“Little harsh, there, Bats,” Selina murmurs to him. He ignores her.

“It’s true,” Bruce says, his anger leeching away with every word. He blinks, hard. “Going on forty-eight hours.” 

“Two years…” Barbara whispers. “Two years, he was in custody. I thought we had him. Everyone said we had him.”

“And now we don’t.” 

“How did I miss this?” Barbara seems genuinely shocked, her hands opening as though only just realizing they are empty. Like something vital has slipped through, unnoticed.

“As far as I can tell, Arkham authorities have been stalling the release of the news. Jim’s serving them with a warrant for seizure of inmate security footage as we speak. But regardless, we’re already too late. It goes to headlines at noon tomorrow.” 

“What,” Dick exclaims, stepping forward in outrage. “But there will be mass panic! They’ll have a riot on their hands!” 

“I know,” Bruce says simply. “But the law states that something like this can’t be kept from the public for any longer. By not immediately alerting the police, the Arkham boys have robbed us of any chance of avoiding pandemonium. Not to mention giving the Joker that much more time to slink away into the dark.” He glances at Babs then, wishing he’d chosen better words. “They’ve painted us into a corner. I’m sorry, Barbara.”

The redhead nods weakly, the effort visibly taking all her strength. It is frightening to see her suddenly become so very small and breakable. It is something Selina had hoped she would never see again. 

“What should we do,” Dick asks, putting on a brave face for his love. However difficult she may be on occasion, he would brave the Joker for her any day. Selina can guess how much Babs would like to return the favor. 

“That is what I was planning to gather you all here to discuss,” Bruce says. Selina recognizes the stalling tactic with a start. He really hasn’t made his decision yet. It is rare these days that he asks for the honest input of any of his charges. Usually, he just gives them the plan and sets them loose. “As most of you know, this is not the only case we are working. There is another, perhaps equally sinister serial killer on the loose, targeting young women in the Bludhaven area. Before the Joker’s escape, it was not merely a question of if, but how the troops should be split to tackle the problem. Now, I am not so sure.” He says the last words with a pained expression. It is the most emotion he has shown since exiting the Batcave. 

“And you’re asking for our feedback?” Tim queries, his voice startlingly young in the heavy atmosphere of the room. 

“Yes,” Bruce replies. “I cannot decide alone how we should approach this one.” 

“Why?”

“Because he’s biased,” Barbara cuts in, hands steepled in front of her face, eyes glaring daggers at Catwoman. Bruce does not rise to the bait.

“Yes,” he says again. Tim looks back and forth between the two of them. 

“Well… it’s in Bludhaven, right?” He suggests cautiously. “Doesn’t that technically make it Dick’s game?” 

“Not anymore,” Dick answers, shaking his head. “It’s bigger than me. It’s… it’s personal.” Tim’s eyes widen slightly, flicking to and from Selina. 

“Oh,” he says. Selina fidgets. 

“What, don’t like the attention?” Babs asks scathingly, turning her anger full-force on the reformed catburglar. "You should be flattered. They’re calling him the ‘American Beauty Killer.’ Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” 

Selina takes a step forward, bewildered and outraged by the younger woman’s vitriol. This is not normal, even for the self-righteous Barbara Gordon.

“Watch yourself, Oracle,” Bruce growls, throwing an arm out to restrain Selina’s advance at the same time that Dick exclaims “Babs!” The redhead waves them both off.

“This isn’t difficult,” she says, looking at Bruce. “Her Biggest Fan has maybe five kills under his belt, seven if we’re being generous. And there can’t be that many Selina Kyle lookalikes in Bludhaven’s dwindling population. Your personal pussycat can obviously take care of herself, so there’s no need to pretend she’s in any special danger. 

"The Joker, on the other hand, has killed upwards of a thousand people, that we know of! He kills indiscriminately, plans his acts randomly, and has personal vendettas against every one of the Bat Family. We have no leads, no information at all, and barely know where to start looking! The Joker is clearly our primary target. I say we go after him. Dick can run the other case in tangent, and Cass can handle regular patrol most nights.” She looks around the room, locking eyes with each vigilante individually before turning back to their fuming leader. 

“Shall we put it to a vote?” she proposes. 

“You’re treading the line here, Oracle,” Bruce warns her, his eyes flashing a dangerous shade.

“And I’m succeeding,” she retorts. “Dick?” 

Richard Grayson takes a deep breath, then nods, visibly reluctant. 

“I can handle Bludhaven,” he says somberly. “There’s not much anyone else can do right now, anyway, while we’re waiting for the computers to process the new evidence. I vote we go ahead with this plan.” He looks at Bruce and Selina, then more firmly back to Barbara. “For now.”

“Tim?” Babs prompts. The boy, the only one besides Barbara clad in civilian clothes, sighs. 

“What’s my part in this,” he asks the room at large.

“Strictly non-confrontational,” Bruce responds immediately. “Information only. You will follow leads, head any stakeouts that might take place, but you will not, under any circumstances, be seen, or instigate any kind of combat. That is an order.” There is a particular edge of iron in his voice that Selina recognizes. It didn’t used to be there when Dick was young. It is something new, something that evolved only after the third and fourth Robbins came to be.

After the second Robin, another angry, hard-headed young boy, years and years ago now it seems, went out to face the Joker and… and didn't come back. 

Selina remembers him most days as the defiant little sidekick by Batman’s side during the years after Dick first struck out on his own. Other days, though, she remembers him as he was in the daylight, stubbornly unbrushed hair falling into his eyes, sleeves rolled up, tie undone. She remembers knocking a cigarette out of the fourteen-year-old’s hand on the balcony of a charity function, once. He was angry at her for it, but that was nothing new. The kid was angry at the world. He had seen so much hurt. He died in so much pain. 

Jason Todd.

“Selina?” 

She looks up, startled, to find Bruce watching her. 

“What,” she says, and it comes out softer than she expected. His forehead crinkles, and she realizes her eyelashes are wet. They feel cold. 

“Your vote?” he prompts. 

“I said yes,” Tim pipes up, obviously hoping to be helpful. “With the same caveat. If this American Beauty case gets any bigger, we have to call in more manpower.” 

“Cassandra is also in agreement,” Bruce murmurs. Selina thinks about that.

At this point, her vote will not make any difference. They have her outnumbered. Even so, she finds herself deliberating the question. 

Objective scrutiny of the situation holds with Barbara. The Joker is the bigger threat to a greater number of people. They have less information on his whereabouts, and no idea as to his motives or where he might strike first. Plus, he has a nasty talent for rallying large groups of violent meatheads to his side, who can often be more destructive than anything the clown might accomplish on his own.

Still, this other bastard is out there, murdering women, possibly because of Catwoman. Women who could practically be her sisters. And he’s been active for a decade, far longer than Joker has ever been at any one time. And as far as they can tell, he’s never been caught. 

The American Beauty Killer. Shit.

Selina closes her eyes against the ringing in her head. God fucking damn it.

“I cede to logic,” she says finally, grimly. “Barbara is right. The Joker is the more… proliferate threat. But if one more girl goes missing, this American Beauty psycho becomes my territory.” Bruce’s face darkens, and he leans in to argue with her, but Dick steps forward, placing a hand on his father’s shoulder. 

“That won’t happen. I’ll take care of it.” He throws a glance at Selina. “Trust me.” 

Bruce watches his eldest son for a moment, debating. After what seems like an eternity, his shoulders lower, relaxing out of his soldier’s stance, and he nods, stepping back. 

“Thank you,” Dick says quietly. 

“Don’t,” Bruce responds in kind, placing one hand lightly on Selina’s back. Although he doesn’t look at her, he can feel her surprise in the way she tenses and then slowly loosens again under his touch. “It’s only what you’re owed.” Then he clears his throat.

“So,” he continues, addressing the rest of his family. “We are agreed. Dick will focus on the Bludhaven case unless the Joker becomes too active to handle. Tim and Oracle will concentrate on information gathering, taking on surveillance duties when necessary. Cassandra will take over nightly patrol of Gotham. Tim, you’ll assist when needed. Both of you will not hesitate to call in backup. Understood?”

There are nods all around. 

“What about me,” enquires a sudden, cantankerous voice from beyond the group. Selina’s head snaps up, her eyes landing on the small figure standing on the staircase in the shadows at the edge of the room. The boy's hair is a mess, and the left side of his face is pink with carpet marks, as though he passed out on the floor instead of in bed. He is dressed in pajamas, loose grey pants and a soft shirt that appears just slightly too big for him, maybe something left over from Dick’s childhood. In fact, the only thing ruining this picture of sleepy innocence is the child’s own murderous expression. “Father.” 

“Damian,” Bruce says, his brow creasing. Kid is damn quiet when he wants to be.

“Youngest Master Wayne,” Alfred exclaims, his tone colored with some annoyance. Selina had almost forgotten he was there. “You were told to be in bed by ten o’clock. It is now nearly three in the morning.” 

“I know that.”

“Then why are you still awake, sir?”

“He is Robin,” Selina says dryly. “You really expect him to obey a curfew? The kid’s sleep schedule probably resembles a Dali painting.” 

“Do not speak for me, Kyle,” the twerp snaps. His scruffy, almost babyish appearance coupled with those furious, flashing eyes is unnerving. But at least it’s ‘Kyle’ and not ‘Whore’ this time. Selina can only imagine where he got that cute little epithet for her. Such a charming woman, his mother. “You cannot keep me out of this, Father. I am a Wayne. I am Robin!” 

“You are too young,” Alfred says severely, cutting off even Bruce with surprising vehemence. “Your duty is to stay here where you will be safe.”

“With her?” Damian nearly shouts. He jabs a finger at Selina, disbelief and outrage plain on his face. She winces.

Oh, god. The poor kid probably thinks his father is conspiring to force a new mother on him. She wonders suddenly what kind of fairytales they have in the League of Assassins, what the wicked stepmothers do to the children in those versions. Whether Thalia ever used Selina’s name to give her son’s bedtime stories that extra, personal touch. 

“Bruce,” Dick pipes up guardedly, glancing at his adoptive father. “I can take him.”

“Not on this case,” Bruce replies sharply. “Neither of them.” 

“I am no child,” Damian barks. “I will not be treated as such!”

Alfred Pennyworth is across the room faster than Selina had thought him capable of, looming over the boy with a fury seldom seen from the proper English butler. 

“You are ten years old,” he rumbles. “And you will obey your elders, especially your father. You are, Master Damian, indeed, a child. And on matters of your life and death, you will quite be treated as such.” 

Damian’s big cobalt eyes go wide with shock. Selina wonders if this is the first time Alfred has spoken to the boy in this way.

Damian’s small chest heaves up and down raggedly, dragging in short, painful-looking breaths. Color blossoms in his cheeks, pink, then a deep, shamefaced red that spreads to his nose, and his eyes – so like his father’s – begin to glow wetly. For a split second, Selina is certain that he is going to strike someone. She has never, once, seen the child… cry. But then he turns on his heel and careens up the stairs, silent but for his footsteps which echo loudly behind him. 

Bruce inhales sharply, watching him go. 

After a moment, Tim leans forward in his seat.

“I can take the holy terror,” he offers, somewhat begrudgingly. “He’ll be a nightmare if you keep him locked up in here for much longer.” 

“I don’t want him involved in this case,” Bruce maintains, shaking his head. “This isn’t something he should see. If you were any younger, I’d keep you away from it altogether.”

“I’m not ten, Bruce,” Tim counters mildly. 

“I know. Trust me, I know.” Bruce makes a quieting palm-down gesture. “But this American Beauty Killer is beyond a monster. He’s a rapist and a sadist, the likes of which I have rarely seen in this city. And the fact that his target…” He stops, taking a deep breath. “Damian is young, but he is not stupid. He’ll know. And I can’t predict how he’ll react, especially in light of… current events.” 

Everyone cuts a look at Selina. 

Thanks, Lover. 

“I won’t have him anywhere near it,” he finishes. Dick approaches him slowly, eyebrows quirked.

“Bruce… you don’t think he’s going to… to switch sides or something, do you? The kid may be angry, and he might not like Selina right now, but I hardly think he’s at risk for becoming a villain.”

“Of course not,” Bruce retorts vehemently. “But if I can spare him those images, I will.”

“If we’re talking about Selina, his mother has probably described similar images to him already,” Babs says, and for once, her distaste is directed at someone other than the catburglar. “In detail.” 

“That’s…” Tim tries.

“She’s not wrong,” Selina says, shrugging. 

“And speaking of Selina,” Barbara continues. “I assume you’ve brought her here to keep her out of the action.”

“Out of the papers,” Bruce corrects. “Not out of Gotham. We need Catwoman’s help with the Joker.” 

“The Joker?” she repeats, surprised. “I was going to suggest you send her off with Dick after her lookalikes. You want her on the clown case?” 

“Yes,” he replies. Barbara’s eyes go slowly between the two older vigilantes, darkening. 

“I assumed you wanted to go after him yourself,” she says slowly. “You rarely take a partner on missions involving the Joker.”

Bruce does not look at anyone as he says,

“I’m learning.” Barbara frowns.

Selina steps forward, then, steeling her resolve. Now or never.

“I’ve been around a lot longer than you, Kid,” she begins, levelling her gaze at Barbara. “I’ve seen a lot more.”

“I’ll bet you have,” Barbara injects acidly. Selina’s answering smile is grim.

“You have no idea.” The air hangs heavy and silent for a moment, then the elder woman sucks in a breath and tries again, very aware of Bruce’s cautious eyes on her. 

“I’m not some super-powered whack job. He and I have that in common. I’m human, and I’ve made mistakes – a thousand mistakes. I’m sure you know half of them. But I’ve put the last six years of my life into trying to correct as many of those mistakes as I can. I try to have no regrets. It’s no use wasting my time feeling sorry for myself. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care. 

“So tell me,” here she looks the former Batgirl straight in the eye. “Tell me I’m beyond redemption.” 

Tim, Cassie, and Dick all watch Barbara carefully, waiting for the explosion. It doesn’t come. Finally, she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over chest. 

“Just don’t ask me to trust you,” she says. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Selina returns, almost wry. 

And that is that. The meeting apparently adjourned, Dick helps Babs up from the armchair as Tim and Cassie make their way upstairs to their rooms. Selina can’t say she’s surprised to see the two are staying at the manor again, but it does manage to add yet another weird layer of false domesticity to the mounting pile. A sleepover, a ride home, and finally, a family meeting, complete with screaming children and evil stepmother. Christ. 

“See you tomorrow,” Dick calls, wheeling Babs toward the door. 

“Get some sleep,” Bruce replies half-heartedly as the front door closes behind his eldest son. Finally, he is alone in the room with Selina. They look at one another wordlessly in the aftermath. 

Funny. It feels like there should at least be broken furniture. A chair thrown against the wall, maybe a priceless vase, lying shattered on the floor in a million pieces. The parlor is entirely too clean for having just witnessed so much emotional violence. 

Alfred reenters the room then, having seen Dick and Babs to their car.

“Well,” he says stoically, clasping his hands in front of him. “That went well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another note on Barbara Gordon: She is NOT a dark character. I tried very hard to make sure that she did not come off as a two-dimensional bitch. I really love the conflict between herself and Selina, and the fact that Selina, in particular, has very little knowledge as to why the former Batgirl dislikes her so intensely. There are reasons there that go beyond what anyone might think, and they can only be expected to crop up and cause interesting problems, later on. 
> 
> I have not included Jason Todd or Stephanie Brown as living characters in this story, although I do like them. I have no plans to include them as living characters, but I don't intend to retcon them out of existence, either. And who knows? I didn't expect Damian to show up either. We'll see where this story takes us. 
> 
> Alright, how did I do?


	11. White Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holly was right about the press conference. Staring down the barrel of a 35mm lens, Bruce finds himself facing not only his present, but his past. It's not a new beginning if there are still secrets hiding in your history. Viki Vale knows this. And something else she knows - Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle have a lot of history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! Thanks to anyone who's still at all interested in this story. I have much bigger plans for the next chapter. But I felt this conversation needed to be had. This, the uncovering of their personal histories, will be a theme going forward. It's hard to avoid when you're exploring two people as damaged and complex as the Bat Family, and especially Bruce and Selina. As always, comments and critiques welcome! I hope you enjoy!

“I resent that question, Miss Vale,” Bruce Wayne snaps. He squints out across the seething crowd of reporters. The sun is painfully bright for this early in the morning, washing the grounds of Wayne Manor in thin, grey light. Facing the sea of flashbulbs, he looks odd and out of place in his grey Armani suit, standing on a makeshift pedestal before an embarrassing array of network microphones. The massive wrought-iron gates of the manor loom behind him, an imposing show of defensive force. He only hopes it was the right choice to meet them here, instead of at the front door or in his office. Should this end badly, he supposes he can always claim security risk as an excuse. 

“Selina Kyle is an old friend,” he continues.

“How old can she be,” Viki Vale puts in acidly, one pale pink pump crunching against the gravel drive in irritation. “She looked a little young for you.” 

Bruce leans back on his heels, hiding his flush. In reality, he only has three years on Selina, but it’s true, he does look much older. Still, Viki’s comment does not sit well with him. Given what she knows – the private information he once shared with her when they were both much younger and more foolish – her newfound interest in Selina Kyle could spell trouble. Inquiries into Selina’s past – and present, for that matter – could be very dangerous for both Catwoman and Batman. For the entire Bat family. 

Bruce clears his throat.

“Revealing a woman’s age to the press could get my eyes clawed out,” he says, staring at her pointedly. “Right, Viki?”

Several reporters chuckle. Viki bristles. Bruce continues, addressing the rest of the crowd in a more mediating tone, 

“Selina Kyle is an old, dear friend. She has told me that she wishes to remain out of the papers. She does not want reporters banging down her front door. I ask that you all respect her wishes and grant her the privacy she has requested.” 

“So you have been in contact with her,” a male reporter asks immediately, watching Bruce with intent blue eyes.

“Does this mean you know where she is,” another shouts from behind the first.

“Is it true that you two had a past relationship?” A third demands, thrusting his microphone at Bruce’s face. 

“That was ten years ago,” Bruce replies with a palm-down gesture, attempting to calm the raucous crowd. “It’s ancient history.”

“Is it true she left you for cheating on her with the entire Russian Ballet?” 

“No,” Bruce snaps. He had forgotten about that rumor.

“Is it true she caught you sleeping with an Austrian princess?”

“No.”

“Is it true—?”

“Is it true that you were, in fact, planning to propose to her, before she left Gotham ten years ago?” Viki Vale’s voice, ringing out with a conviction that comes only with the knowledge of intimate fact, cuts through the crowd like a scythe. 

Bruce freezes. A dozen pairs of eyes shift slowly from Viki to stare at himself. One or two, likely aware of Ms. Vale’s own affair, widely-publicized at the time, with the infamous, then twenty-something Bruce Wayne, glance between them, back and forth. There is a long, ominous pause.

“This is off-topic,” Bruce retorts at last. “Selina Kyle is not here. We are not in a relationship. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He begins to turn away amidst cries of “But where is she” and “Why did she slap you,” but the next words stop them all cold. 

“Is it true that you’re still in love with her?”

Absolute silence.

Bruce pivots slowly to stare at Viki Vale. Her voice is even, coldly apathetic. But her eyes are burning with accusation. 

Bruce remembers, in that instant, the night long ago when he told one aspiring young reporter, in confidence, how the woman he had last loved had broken his heart when she left him. She hadn't been able to handle his… lifestyle. He was too focused on his work. 

Viki liked pale pink even then, Bruce recalls, as evidenced by the long satin gown he vividly remembers her wearing. It clashed with her red, shoulder-length hair, but in such a soft, harmless way that he had almost mistaken Viki herself for harmless.

Almost. 

Perhaps that edge of danger had clouded his judgement - reminded him, somehow, of another dangerous woman whose attention he had by then come to crave; though that woman tended to wear purple. His emotions were all caught up that night, rearing in a way he had not experienced since childhood. Love and anger, hurt and rage, guilt, shame, conviction, all boiled beneath his skin, pushing him to action, pushing him to do something to make them stop. Perhaps that was why he told Viki so much of the truth. He suspects it of being why he kissed her. She looked, Bruce learned, just as lovely out of that dress as in it. 

He would realize the next day, after she was gone, that she had rifled through his drawers. The Bulgari engagement catalogue, months old yet still in its wrapping, had the scent of her perfume on it. The small, unframed photograph of Selina, which had rested atop the catalogue since January, was missing. 

There has been little between the two of them for many years now, other than a passing, professional tension and a general sense of unease. But the fact remains – Viki Vale knows the whole truth of his early relationship with Selina, at least insofar as their public personas were concerned. She is probably the only person on the planet, aside from the mind-reading Zatanna, who does. 

And she is threatening to use that knowledge against him, in plain language, in front of their entire city. 

“Isn’t it true, Mister Wayne,” she continues, “that you lied to every other woman when you claimed you loved them? Even as you dated half of Gotham, one by one and two by two.” She takes a step forward, staring up at him, her voice growing low and resigned. “It was always Selina Kyle." 

It is not a question. 

“This meeting is over,” Bruce barks, not loudly, turning on his heel and jumping from the stage. “Don’t forget your damned microphones.” 

***** 

Back inside the house, everything is dark and very quiet. Alfred is in the west wing today, dusting furniture which nobody uses, and polishing floors on which no one ever steps foot. There was a time when Bruce took great pride in the intricacies of his house, its grand scale and history, generations in the making. The weight of its beams and great oak doors felt sacred as a cathedral to him then, a monument to his martyrdom. After the earthquake destroyed the original building, he had it rebuilt from the ground up, exactly as it had been the day his parents had died more than twenty years before. It had felt satisfying at the time, or something similar. Selina would have called it masochistic.

As he has grown older, he has begun to see her point.

All of that dense, old familiarity seems to have soaked oppressively into the very seams of the house, its carpets, its wallpapers, and deep into the knots in the perfect, polished wood. It’s a parody of the home he once had here, and the older he gets, the harder he finds it to carry that same torch of outrage for the sins of the past. Whatever ghosts may have lingered here once are now long gone, having abandoned him to his hollow imitation. 

Even martyrs grow tired. 

Bruce finds Selina in the Blue Room, a small antechamber to the main parlor about the size of a broom closet. In fact, it might have been a broom closet at some point, he muses. His parents had had some small renovations done in their first year of marriage. His mother, especially, had been a solitary person. Perhaps she had wanted a cozier spot to sip her tea.

Selina has dragged his leather armchair into the small space, cramming it up against the massive old television set in the corner. She sits in it cross-legged, a steaming mug of coffee warming her hands. The lights are off, but one large window is only halfway shuttered, casting its grey light in lattices upon the floor and across her face. Bruce’s own voice comes out of the ancient speakers, followed by reporter after reporter making comments and taking notes. He comes to stand beside her, watching uneasily. 

“They’re going pretty hog-wild out there, huh,” Selina murmurs. 

“Yes,” Bruce replies, shifting his weight. “For now. But in five hours, the news about the Joker’s escape will be on every channel. They’ll have much bigger problems to report on then.” Selina does not immediately reply.

“You’re sure,” she asks at length. 

“It’s the obvious conclusion.” 

“I know…” she says, sounding unconvinced. "But I can't stop thinking about what Holly said.” She turns to him, her eyebrows knitting. “Remember the very beginning, when we were first together and in the press?” He nods grudgingly. 

“Of course. We couldn’t walk down the street without being ambushed.” Selina nods.

“Exactly. But we were hardly the biggest news in those days. The Holiday Killer was on the loose that whole year, holding the city in suspense. Hell, Joker even made an appearance at Christmastime and wreaked havoc. Yet what made front-page news not two days later? Not the Joker. Or Holiday, for that matter.” 

Bruce looks perturbed.

“’Gotham’s Young and Beautiful Put Your Christmas Dinner to Shame at the Ritz-Carlton,’” he quotes through tight lips. Selina has no doubt it’s word-for-word.

“Holiday was page two. They’d run his story the day before,” she recalls.

“I remember that.” He does not sound pleased. Selina observes his face carefully, his eyes trained downward, staring at the carpet in thought. If he keeps this up, he'll be on the track to spiraling depression by breakfast. The man needs a shrink. They both do. 

“Y’know,” she says eventually, attempting to lighten the mood, “I actually saved that big, fat, front-page picture of us they ran with that story. Even had it in a drawer for a while.” 

Bruce’s lips turn up at the corners. 

“Really,” he enquires, his head tilting to look at her curiously. 

“Mhm.” She sips her coffee, remaining conspicuously silent. Intrigued, he presses the issue. 

“Where is it now?"

Selina’s brow quirks in surprise, but then her expression and her voice cool. 

“The city dump, I suppose. I left it in the apartment when I skipped town that next year. In the drawer.”

"Oh," Bruce says, averting his gaze. "I see." 

Ah. Yes. 

Valentine’s Day. 

“I hadn’t forgotten,” he admits quietly. She doesn't respond. 

He remembers how easy it had been, then, to take her for granted. It seems ridiculous now, the idea that their relationship had once ended because of something as mundane as his having stood her up on too many dates. But there it is. 

“Why didn’t you take it with you?” he asks. 

Her voice is oddly soft when she replies,

“I didn’t need the picture.” 

Bruce thinks about that for a long moment. Then he clears his throat.

“Do you know if Damian is awake?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Selina says, playing along. “But he’s probably avoiding me, so I doubt I would know. What time does the kid usually get up?” Bruce snorts affectionately.

“He’s either been awake for hours already, or he’ll be dead to the word until noon.” 

“Ah,” she chuckles. “I see.” Then, a little absently, “So. Propose, huh?” 

Bruce startles.

“Viki…”

“Dated you afterward, yes. I know.”

“No. I – well, yes. But that is not what I was going to say.”

“I know, Love,” she says blandly. “That’s why I said it.” 

Bruce shoots her a look, which she ignores. Then he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. It’s too late. No going back from this rabbit hole. 

He begins the story slowly, with the slightly shamefaced air of a man reexamining old wounds.

“Viki was always jealous. You and I had been together in the press for nearly two years. Everybody in Gotham knew about us. They had certain expectations for our future. As a result, many people became… possessive of our relationship. Apparently, those readers were not pleased when Viki replaced you in the papers.”

Selina has the decency to look skeptical. 

“Really.” 

“Yes.” Bruce opens his hand in a gesture of helpless honesty. “She felt threatened. By you. By how she… Suspected… That I still felt about you.”

“Poor girl knew she was a rebound.”

“That’s not fair, Selina.” 

“No,” she agrees. “It isn’t.”

Bruce opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, taking her meaning.

“I did try to make it work,” he maintains. 

“But the Big Bad Bat got in the way, did he?”

“That is the official story, yes.” 

“There’s an unofficial story?”

“I…" He blinks, willing the truth to his lips. "Yes. And she knew it.” Selina is very still beside him. Bruce takes a deep breath, watching the ceiling. “I thought, for a time, that I loved her.” 

Selina nods silently, inhaling. Closing her eyes, she turns her lovely face away as though searching for the strength to see. 

“…And Viki?” She asks. 

He smiles sadly, shaking his head. “I don’t believe she was ever convinced.” 

“Poor girl.”

After a moment, Bruce slides into a sitting position on the floor, legs crossed. Yielding. 

“I told her once,” he says, reaching over to take Selina’s hand. “In confidence. About you… Us.” 

Selina nods, and he continues, letting the words pour out like water.

“I did not tell her I had been planning to propose. She figured that out on her own. Though 'planning' might not be the right word. I wasn’t even sure how serious I was. I never had a set date. A big part of me knew that I might never be able to do it, simply because the Batman would always be in the way. But,” he glances at her then and begins toying gently with her fingertips. “The mask didn’t necessarily seem so… Permanent, back then. In the beginning.”

Selina sets her coffee down and puts a hand to her mouth, curling her knees into her chest. 

Shit. What the hell kind of trip would that have been, Bruce Wayne proposing to her? Ten years ago she was a volatile agent, a rising star already halfway to implosion. Would she have jumped at the chance to marry the handsome billionaire? Given up her life as a catburglar, settled down, and popped out a few miniature Waynes? 

She might have balked and run.

The only thing of which Selina is certain is that she had loved him, even then. More than she had previously thought herself capable of. She hadn’t planned it, hadn’t meant for it to happen. But she fell anyway. 

“You didn’t tell her that last part, I hope,” she remarks after a moment. 

“About the Mission? No.” He shakes his head. “But she knew I was holding out. I had only been seeing her a few weeks at that point, but the Holiday copycat killer had started up by then, and I was trying to keep Viki from ending up on the hit list. I knew she was looking for a story, and I wanted to give her one that would keep her far away from the Batman. And… I confess, I was trying to get her on my side. I thought I needed an ally in the press. Playing the sympathetic romantic seemed the best way to do that, at the time.

"Still, I told her too much. She seemed to understand... I wanted her to understand." His words turn derisive. "I made that mistake more than once back then."

Selina snorts indelicately.

“And let me guess. She jumped at the chance to ‘comfort’ the brokenhearted billionaire.” 

Bruce hesitates.

“Well… Yes. But I thought, then, that she was only in it for the story. I didn’t expect anything like love. But then months went by. I was surprised when I realized I had fallen into the old routine with someone new. I took that familiarity for love. I thought she did too.”

“And now?” 

Bruce’s answering smirk is apologetic. 

“I suspect she saw through me,” he says. “So did Silver. So did Thalia, and she nearly killed you over it.”

“I noticed,” Selina growls.

“Even still,” he continues. “I can’t help but marvel. How they knew – or suspected. They all said it, at one point or another. ‘There’s someone else. Something you’re not telling me.’ Sometimes they would ask me if I loved them. I would say yes. And I believed it.” He runs a finger along her palm. “But they never did. Or they realized later. Once or twice, I was accused of being in love with someone else.”

“Other than dark vengeance, you mean?”

He shrugs. “They certainly did. I thought, for so long, that it was just the Mission. That it was vengeance, or justice, or the law getting in the way. And those things were significant blocks. But there was always something – someone – else. And I should have known.”

There is a long silence then. Bruce continues to toy with her long, delicate fingers until she stops him by lacing them together with his, kissing his knuckles. Bruce has to calm the urge to run his hands through her hair. He waits, and eventually Selina speaks. 

“What do you mean, you ‘used to’ think Viki was only in it for the headline?”

“Well…” he answers simply, one eyebrow arching at the truth. “She never did run the story.”

The news continues on the screen, quiet and unobtrusive. Wordlessly, Selina offers him a sip of her coffee. She drinks it black, something he has always found strangely endearing. They have similarities, the two of them. Even ordinary ones. 

Bruce passes the cup back to her. Selina swirls the liquid in a circle thoughtfully. He squeezes her hand once, an unfamiliar feeling of contentment settling in around them. Selina leans forward in Bruce’s chair, inviting him into her space. With a rare smile, he obliges, rolling onto his knees and taking her face in his hands. She kisses him, her lips tasting of the buzz of caffeine and finely tempered emotion. She smells like his shampoo, the faintly masculine scent lending her curves an unfamiliar, androgynous sort of sensuality. He is purely amazed by Selina Kyle. There is never a shortage of new ways to find her beautiful. 

Selina slips her tongue along his upper lip and he shudders, throwing his arms around her midsection to crush her closer. She moves forward into his lap, hooking a leg around his hip. A tiny sound escapes her, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Bruce gives a raspy chuckle, burying his nose in her neck. She kisses the top of his head then rocks forward abruptly, tipping Bruce backward onto the floor. With an “oomph!” she lands atop him, sporting an unmistakable Cheshire grin. He surprises himself by laughing out loud. Her eyes soften then, revealing a roil of unspoken questions. 

“Bruce--?”

“Bruce!” The parlor door slams open, hitting the sideboard with a sound like a gunshot. 

Selina launches into the air, landing in a lethal offensive position beside Bruce. Upright even before herself, he stands before the intruder, shielding her from view, his body rigid and singing with tension. So much for that happy moment.

“Dick!” Bruce exclaims, staring at his eldest son in alarm. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Dick, clad in civilian garb, stands in the doorway, unmoving. His expression is strange. When he throws a guarded look at Selina, her eyes narrow. 

“What’s going on, Grayson,” she demands. “What happened?” He shakes his head, distracted. 

“Wrong question. It’s what’s going to happen,” he replies. “I’ve got news.” 

“I assumed. Care to share?”

“I think I found the American Beauty Killer.” 

Selina steps in front of Bruce, ignoring the way his arms flex, as though threatening to force their protection on her. He knows better. 

“Who is it?” All of the openness, the companionable silence of the moment before is gone. Duty calls. 

Dick’s gaze shifts uncertainly between her and his adoptive father. 

“You won’t like it.”

“Tell me who it is, Dick.” He looks down at her steadily. Selina does not like the pitying look in his eyes, kind and sad. 

“It’s Maggie Kyle,” he says finally. “I’m sorry, Selina. It’s your sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll give you a hint - there's more.  
> Well, what did you think?


	12. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The greatest evils have a way of sneaking up behind us and growing roots in our hearts while we're not looking. Magdalena Kyle is broken utterly - but is she a murderer? Can Selina find out the answer before it is too late? Or will they all be blindsided by the truth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a LOT of trouble writing this chapter. Maggie was an exceptionally difficult character to write, not only because of her relationship to Selina, but also because of her mental illness, which has been portrayed in drastically different ways in the comics, depending on the arc and the writer. I have chosen to represent her illness as a form of schizophrenia, and have tried to approach it with care and delicacy. I have left her condition somewhat ambiguous, as it is in the comics, but have attempted to refine her personality and actions to the point of being more realistic in the context of her situation. I sincerely hope that my depiction of a mental illness in this chapter is not offensive to anyone, and I welcome any notes regarding my portrayal, whether positive or negative. 
> 
> ***TRIGGER WARNING*** for this chapter - Maggie has experienced serious abuse including violent torture. I do not go into detail in the chapter, but the general idea is clear. There are short mentions of child abuse as well. 
> 
> Thank you and I hope y'all enjoy this latest installment! I look forward to writing the next chapter!

Selina doesn’t bother asking how Bruce knows Maggie’s location, or how long he was planning to keep that information from her. The Bat has a talent for lying by omission. If no news is good news, then perhaps he thought he was doing her a favor. And to be fair, the news that Selina’s sister is alive but again severely mentally and physically impaired after Sionis’ last attack might have just about destroyed her a few months ago. Maybe he wanted to protect her from the truth.

She makes a mental note to have that argument with him later. 

For now, they are busy with another.

“I still don’t see why you insist on going alone,” Bruce chides. Half-dressed, he and Selina stand together in the Batcave’s armory arguing in soft, heated tones. Bruce notices, but does not comment on the fact that Selina has chosen to wear the additional armor he once had built for her, years ago when Luthor’s incarnation of the Secret Society first came to town. He helps her with the familiar clasps, worrying over the rarity with which she wears them. He would prefer to see her wear this under-armor more often, but seeing her in it now does nothing to bring him comfort. Selina is playing tonight off as though it were low-risk, but the fact that she has opted for this extra protection speaks volumes. Selina is scared. And for Bruce, that is a terrifying thought. 

“If she sees you, it could trigger a psychotic episode,” he continues, swallowing emotion to keep his voice steady. “You should have backup in case she gets violent.”

“Maggie is my sister.” Selina shakes her head, her mouth set in a grim line. “She’s my responsibility. If she’s behind the American Beauty killings, I have to know.”

“She’s unpredictable, Selina. For all we know, just the sight of you could set her off.” 

“For all we know, she’s a vegetable.” The words come out sharp from the fear clawing its way up her throat. “The reality is we don’t know. And she’s just as likely to flip out on you or Dick or anyone else as she is to try and tear my head off. And if she does, you know I’m the only person on the planet who has a chance of talking her down.”

“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t go alone. If talking doesn’t work you’ll have to fight her, and we have no way of knowing what that would mean.” He pauses. “I… never fully understood what you told me about your last encounter with her.”

“I handled her just fine the last time,” Selina quips, dodging the implied question. “I’ll be fine. This isn’t your fight. It’s not Dick’s, and it certainly isn’t one for the baby birds.”

“I will not let you go alone.” He stares at her, his jawline hard and angular, letting concern seep into his voice. 

“This is not open for debate,” she says evenly, echoing his own words to Barbara from last night.

“No,” he retorts, doubling down. “It isn’t.” 

The look Selina cuts him would be fatal to a lesser man. It pierces his chest, a strike so precise he loses his breath. But he does not budge.

Her eyes narrow at him, flashing a brilliant, ominous shade. He can sense her changing tactics. 

Very deliberately, Selina leans forward, putting her foot up on the edge of the enormous computer console. Slowly, sinfully, she rolls the skintight fabric of a leg guard, slick-looking and blade-resistant, up her calf. Up, up…. Over the knee… up her thigh… Bruce feels his eyes track her every move. When she snaps the garter’s edge against her soft flesh, making it bounce, his breathing stops. Selina tips her head back, lips parted in a knowing smile. Her eyes, alluring as absinthe, never once leave his own. 

When he was younger, Bruce might have mistaken that look for the invitation it resembles. But this is not his first trip round this block. He is no longer that unsuspecting twenty-two-year-old chasing Catwoman across the Gotham skyline in a spandex onesie and a rapidly-tightening jock strap.

After more than ten years of knowing the woman, Bruce recognizes a warning when he sees one. She is testing him, letting him feel exactly how much power she has over his body. His mind. She doesn’t even have to touch him to affect him.

Bruce swallows.

He shifts carefully into a neutral stance, bowing his head in quiet dissent. 

“I just want you to be safe,” he says gently. Selina’s leg slides back to the floor and she sidles up to him, a dare and a demand in her voice. 

“Then trust me.” 

He strokes her face. 

“Take a tail with you.” 

“That had better be a pun,” she growls, pulling out of his grasp. Bruce shakes his head in annoyance. 

“If you won’t take a partner, at least let someone follow at a distance.”

“Oh? And who do you suggest?” She crosses her arms, hip cocked. Bruce frowns.

“I would provide the best cover in the event of a confrontation.”

“And who will catch the Joker?” she asks. His jaw locks. There is anger in his eyes, and pain. He does not answer. Selina nods. “That’s what I thought,” she says and lets her head fall into her hand, tapping one foot in agitation. Then she sighs. 

“Bruce,” she says, softer now, reaching up to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Trust me. Please.” 

“I do trust you,” he says, covering her fingers with his own large palm. Distress rings plain in his words. “I don’t trust her.” 

“God, you’re beginning to sound like Clark before he got up the balls to tell Lois he doesn’t really need glasses,” she huffs.

“Please don’t compare me to Clark,” he grunts, and his expression is so long-suffering that she has to laugh. 

“I’m not fragile, Bruce,” she says, smiling slightly. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that. I’ve gone up against every other rogue in your gallery at some point in my career and won. I don’t need your help with my sister.”

He looks her in the eye. Then he speaks.

“Harley Quinn told Dick that Magdalena nearly killed you the last time you saw her.” 

“I wasn’t aware that Richard and Doctor Quinzel were on gossiping terms,” Selina drawls, her tone cooling. 

“They might have exchanged information once or twice while attempting to investigate the many sudden attacks on your life at the time.”

“Investigating?” she scoffs. “Was anyone really surprised when it turned out to be Talia?” 

“Regardless,” he sighs. “Between the attacks and Talia’s involvement –,”

“Masterminding,” she corrects. He grimaces.

“After Talia blew your apartment to high hell, and Zatanna barely managed to keep you alive -,”

“Zatanna attempted to wipe all memory of you from my mind against my will,” Selina interrupts harshly. “Do not try to explain this to me like I’m a child, Bruce. I was there. Now do you understand?” She knots her fingers in the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck, not hard. “I survived all that.” 

Bruce stares at the ceiling.

“Barely,” he rumbles. She shrugs.

“Such is our lot.” Bruce takes her hand from his skin with an expression of exhausted bewilderment. 

“That was quite a year,” he murmurs unhappily. 

“And not just for me,” she says. “How was eighteenth-century Gotham?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he winces. She waits a beat.

“How did you feel when you got back and heard the news?” 

“Which news?” He asks. “That stunt Talia and Zatanna tried to pull? Or you teaming up with Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy? Or,” his eyebrows knit together. “Do you mean the news about your sister being possessed by – an angel? A demon? Dick had no idea and neither did your friends. All they could work out in the chaos was that she had superhuman abilities and nearly killed you. More than once. Selina,” he takes her shoulders in his hands. “Please. Let me help you.”

“No.” 

“Selina!”

“No, Bruce. Not you.” She shakes her head. “You work the clown case. It’s where you’re needed. But,” She stares evenly up into his liquid blue eyes. “I’ll keep Dick on my comm. He can follow me on his own route through the city, if he’s available. That’s all you’ll get from me.” 

He sighs, relieved or exasperated or both. “Thank you.” He looks at her for a moment. Without warning, Bruce picks her up, wrapping his arms about her and hugging her close to his chest. They say nothing to one another. 

But he holds her for a long time. 

 

***** 

 

“Thanks for inviting me along on my own mission.” Dick Grayson’s voice hums sourly in her cowl’s earpiece.

“Don’t mention it,” Catwoman replies, uninterested in the baby bird’s temper tantrum. For all his supposed maturity, Dick can still be a real child. And she hasn’t got time for his ego tonight. Nor his father’s for that matter.

Unfurling her whip from the catch at her waist, Selina leaps onto the roof of the next building. God, when was the last time she was here? Twenty, twenty-five years ago? Maggie was walking, so it must have been after their mother died… 

The ancient stones pass silently under her feet as she walks along the roofline toward the nearest steeple. She places a gloved hand on the weathered lacework of masonry, turning her eyes up and up, to the gleaming steel cross at the top, the Christ figure staring blankly out across the still city.

Gordon has the city on lock-down. Any rogues that aren’t locked up in Arkham have either skipped town or hidden themselves away in the darkest crevice they can find to wait out the coming storm. 

The Joker is out there. Not even the monsters are safe. 

Catwoman frowns, watching the ghostly figure of a patrol car lurking silently in the distance, even its running lights off. 

She crouches low, claws gripping the fog-dampened stone, and leans out over the edge of the building. The windows below are black in their heavy, carved panes, the wall disappearing into shadow as it descends into the steaming streets. Gargoyles loom at every turn, their snarling, mournful countenances disturbing and all too familiar. 

“Selina,” comes Dick’s voice in her earpiece again. “Snap out of it. It’s time to go.”

“I know.” But she doesn’t move. There is a pause.

“We really don’t have time for this,” he says, softer than before. “You just have to get in, sedate her, and then get her to the roof. I’ll take it from there.”

“Assuming the Whirly-Bat 2.0 can handle two passengers.” It’s almost a joke.

“I’m using the plane,” Nightwing retorts. “And you’re stalling. Is something wrong?” Selina takes a long, slow breath.

“Maggie was christened at this church,” she says at last, raking her eyes along the darkened skyline. “Saint Agnes is her patron saint. Our mother’s choice.” 

“Oh,” Nightwing says, startled. 

“Yeah,” she coughs a laugh. “The irony stings, doesn’t it.”

Nightwing watches Catwoman make her way to the nearest outcropping and jump down onto a windowsill before opening the window and slinking through. As annoyed as he is at being ordered to run second on this case, he can’t deny the logic of it. If there’s anyone who can break through to Maggie Kyle, it’s going to be her sister. 

His eyebrow quirks and he wonders, not for the first time, just what kind of person Selina Kyle’s mother was. Unhappy, certainly. It’s a matter of public record that Maria Kyle committed suicide when Selina was five. Magdalena must have been two. 

But surely the woman must have loved her daughters, at least at some point?

Dick shifts his weight, peering through the red lenses of his binoculars. Then again, he muses. What sane parent would want Lady Agnes for their kid’s patron saint? 

 

***** 

 

Catwoman disappears seamlessly into the gloom of the long hallway, following the schematics given to her earlier by Oracle. Up the narrow twisting staircase, through a large chamber with enormous vaulted ceilings, down a short passage and around a final corner until – 

“Shit!”

Selina brings a gloved hand to her mouth, muffling the gasp as it leaves her lips. The door is wide open. And there, sitting up in bed with a smile on her frozen features, sits Magdalena Kyle.

Catwoman freezes. Her breath solidifies in her lungs, cold and sharp. Adrenaline courses through her veins, tensing her muscles, pushing her heartbeat to a clamor in her ears. Her claws are unsheathed in half a second and her stance is wide to receive attack. 

But Maggie doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. 

Is she breathing? Selina looks about the room for signs of a trap.

There is little furniture, merely the bed and a heavy wooden dresser beside a small washbasin. A child-sized chair sits at the head of the bed, a worn book of fairytales on the seat. There is no room for anything more. But there are toys all over the bed and the floor. 

What is going on? 

Slowly, Catwoman shifts to the side, examining her sister’s figure more closely.

Maggie remains unmoving, sitting bolt upright in her small bed surrounded by her pastel teddy bears. Her auburn hair is cut short, fraying out in a halo of tight curls, like silvery fire in the moonlight.

Selina inches forward, avoiding the treacherous network of wooden blocks and wind-up dolls strewn across the floor. Flashes of Maggie’s face run through her mind like a film reel.

Maggie, so small, her entire body fitting snugly against Selina’s own, her weight like an anchor to a calmer reality; Maggie, her mouth contorted in rage, irises white, screaming profanities in a blood-stained nun’s habit; Maggie again, eyes wide and helpless in eight-year-old innocence, watching Selina in horror before being loaded into the back of a shiny black car, leaving Selina alone on the orphanage steps.

Her pale, chapped lips once cooed Selina’s name before they could say any other word; those eyes, now a flat grey, once shone, huge and blue and bright, taking in the whole world like it was hers to treasure; chubby, dimpled hands used to grab for Selina’s hair, back when it was long enough to be pulled, and curled about her face… now those hands lie limply on their coverlet, the nails painstakingly scrubbed and blunted into small, nonthreatening squares. 

Watching the comatose woman before her, Selina can’t help but flinch at the memories. This poor soul is so catastrophically different from the wide-eyed little girl Selina once tried so hard to protect.

This is Maggie. But she isn’t Maggie anymore. 

Catwoman swallows hard, trying not to call up the images of her sister chained to a wall in Black Mask’s apartment. There was blood everywhere, everywhere but on her sister, and Selina remembers that searing swoop of relief… until… 

A sick heat begins to roil in her chest, remembering the corpse of her sister’s husband. That poor innocent man, mangled beyond recognition, his eyes gone, and blood on her sister’s lips. 

Catwoman sinks to her knees among the toys, unable to stop the storm. 

“I can’t,” she whispers. 

“Selina!” Dick’s voice clangs in the silence. “Answer me, dammit! Or I’m coming in there and I’m bringing the cavalry.” 

“Not necessary, Nightwing,” she murmurs, fighting down her panic. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” he retorts. Selina lets this pass. “What’s going on in there?”

“I found her.” Dick makes a short hissing sound over the line. 

“Be careful,” he rumbles. 

“You sound like Batman.”

“I was Batman for over a year,” he reminds her. Selina smirks. Sometimes she is grateful for that attitude of his.

“Ssh,” she shushes him, forcing her focus onto the task at hand. Maggie has not responded to her conversation with Dick, but that could be an act. The thing that possessed her body three years ago was very good at hiding itself when it wanted to. But even if it’s gone for good, Maggie could still be extremely dangerous. Assuming she is the American Beauty Killer – something Selina cannot quite bring herself to do – she would have to have been killing for years before the demon ever showed up. And it is possible.

Black Mask drove Maggie Kyle mad seven years ago in an attempt to get revenge on Catwoman. Though it wasn’t all business. Selina is certain the devil himself couldn’t have enjoyed the process more thoroughly than the sadistic Roman Sionis. The oldest crime scene linked to the Catwoman look-alikes has been dated to just after Maggie was rescued from his clutches. 

So yeah. The timeline fits. 

Selina swallows. Maggie is breathing, but barely. God, should she call an ambulance? Wake the nuns? Selina’s mouth is dry and cold. She licks her lips. 

She should not be doing this. She should just stick Maggie with the sedative and drag her out to the Batplane before anyone has a chance to wake up and call the cops. But… 

She can’t help it. This is her sister. Bruce will treat her like a criminal, and god knows what black hole Oracle is dreaming up to cram her into as soon as they get back to the cave. Selina might never see her again. 

This is a mistake, a bad idea… 

“Maggie?” she whispers. No response. “Maggie.” 

Her sister’s breathing is shallow, the scratchy sound loud in the tiny room. 

“Fuck,” Selina mouths, clenching her fists. She drags in a breath. One hand hovering over the stun gun at her belt, she lowers herself to Maggie’s level, sitting on her haunches at the side of the bed. 

Here goes something stupid… 

“Maggie!” The word claps against the stone walls, almost painful, and then Selina flies backward away from her sister. 

Magdalena is shuddering violently, gasping for air. Selina grasps the stun gun and aims as Maggie reaches out toward her with thin, white fingers. Her eyes are wild, confusion and terror plain on her face. Then they fix themselves on Selina, and still. 

“Who are you,” Maggie asks, and Selina blinks spastically. The voice is high and childish, neither the soft hum Selina remembers from before the orphanage, nor the smooth alto of the woman she once was. “What are you doing in my room,” it asks.

Selina tries and fails to breathe. 

“Don’t…” She shakes her head against the assault of emotions threatening to overcome her. “Don’t be afraid.” 

“You’re a stranger,” Maggie murmurs skeptically. Then her eyes widen and she pulls the blanket up to her chest, huddling against the wall in sudden fear. “Are you a ghost,” she whispers. 

“No,” Catwoman replies, cautiously coming closer. “No, I’m not a ghost. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

“You look like a cat,” Maggie says, her nose wrinkling. She reaches out to touch the ear of Selina’s cowl, but stops when her sister flinches. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Ma-,” Selina begins, then stops herself, swallowing. “Nothing, kid. Nothing’s wrong. You just startled me. That’s all.” 

“I’m no kid,” Magdalena pouts indignantly, causing Selina’s heart to sputter. “I’m a big girl! I’m almost six now!” 

The fine wrinkles on the woman’s forehead, combined with the deep lines carved by sorrow around her mouth, make the innocent enough statement into a bullet. Selina remembers when Maggie turned six – it was the day their father broke his little daughter’s arm while trying to get to Selina. Selina, who looked nothing like him but was the spitting image of her mother, so that his wife’s face taunted him even in death, judging him through the eyes of her bastard child.

That was the one and only time Selina let Maggie try to be the protector. Maggie, her little sister.

She looks older than Selina now. 

“Six years old, huh?” Selina murmurs. 

“In two weeks!” 

“Congratulations,” Selina says, trying to muster up some sense of false excitement. 

But that’s right, actually. Her sister’s birthday is on February 16th. So she remembers that much. Selina wonders where the knowing ends. 

“The nun-ladies are throwing me a party,” Maggie continues. “There’s gonna be a cake and everything!” 

Selina has to turn away as the air leaves her chest, not caring that she is opening herself up to attack. 

‘Nun-ladies’ was her word when they were children. She used to whisper silly nonsense about them to amuse Maggie on those odd days when their mother decided for whatever reason to drag them to church. 

And then at the orphanage she would use those same stories to make Maggie laugh after the nuns had struck them with rulers or bibles or belts. With hands swollen, her knuckles bruised and blackening, Selina would weave stories to stave off the nightmares. But Maggie was adopted within a year of their arrival at that place, and then Selina would whisper those words to herself at night, knowing they wouldn’t help. 

“Are you ok?” Maggie asks suddenly, staring in appalled fascination.

“Yes,” Selina replies quickly. “I’m fine. I need to talk to you.”

“Ok.” Maggie shrugs.

“Do you have a name?”

“I’m Magdalena,” she says. “Like the Bible.” 

“Magdalena, huh?” So there’s another point of reference for her missing memories. “I hear she was an interesting lady.” 

“Sure, she did some cool stuff I guess.” Uninterested, Maggie begins playing with the corners of her pillow. Selina steels herself for the next question. 

“Maggie,” she says, carefully holstering the stun gun and palming instead a smoke bomb and a tiny syringe. “Do you have any family?” The redhead stares at her blankly. 

“Everybody has family,” she says matter-of-factly. Selina nods, masking her tension with the gesture. 

“That’s true,” she agrees. “Do you know any of yours?” 

“Yes.” Maggie nods but then looks at her blanket, at the cheerful monkeys and dancing bears quilted onto its surface. “I have a mama,” she harrumphs at last.

“Anyone else?” Selina turns the syringe over in her fingers, hiding the powerful sedative behind her back. 

“No,” Maggie states simply. Selina’s heart drops.

“I see,” she whispers, almost to herself. “So there’s no one else.” 

Maggie looks distressed. 

“No,” she sulks. 

“Ok then,” Selina says quietly, rising to her feet. Best not to push her luck. “I’ll let you go back to sleep.” She lifts the tiny syringe.

“No!” Magdalena orders stubbornly. “I remember. I have got someone else.” 

Selina halts in her tracks, staring at the small, petulant woman before her. 

“I’ve got an angel,” Maggie goes on. “A sister.” 

Catwoman wants to take on a defensive stance, but she can’t. She can barely breathe.

“Do you know if your sister had a name?” 

Maggie scrunches up her face as though thinking very hard. When she opens her eyes, she looks as though she is about to cry. She shakes her head slowly, making her curls shiver. 

“I don’t remember,” she whimpers. “I don’t know. It was very important. I promised I wouldn’t forget.” 

“It’s ok, Maggie,” Selina says quietly, trying to hush the woman before she becomes hysterical. Any more noise than they are making and someone could come looking. “Shh, it’s ok.” 

“No!” Maggie cries. Selina’s ears prick up at the distant sound of a door scraping open against a stone floor. “No! I know it! I know her name! I won’t forget! I promised!” She throws the bedclothes onto the floor and Selina grabs her arms to stop her movements from growing more violent. 

“Let go,” Maggie shouts. “I know it! It’s… It’s…” Then she stops. The world slides sideways and then everything is thrown into very sharp focus. Silence. The two women stare at one another as the sound of pounding feet in the hallway grows dangerously close. Selina doesn’t blink.

“Selina?” 

Oh god. Oh god. Maggie’s voice, her real voice, falls like a prayer from those pale, chapped lips. Her brown eyes are sharp, the spark of intelligence burning within them drawing Selina in like a lighthouse. Neither one of them moves. Neither one breathes. 

“Selina, is that really you?” Maggie asks, the sound a hoarse whisper. Hoarse, but hers. Selina can only nod. “Selina. Oh my god.” Maggie takes her sister’s hand, gripping it tight. “How did--?” She looks around the room in which she has lived for the last three years as though seeing it for the first time. “How--.” And that is it. Just like that, something snaps. “No!” She shrieks and Selina nearly jumps out of her skin. Maggie’s eyes roll back until only the whites are there, and then she is screaming. “I saw— I saw it!”

“No Maggie, wait,” Selina cries, trying to calm her sister to no avail. 

“I saw it, I wasn’t there, I didn’t want to!” Maggie rakes her fingernails across the flesh of her forearms, drawing blood. Selina grabs her sister in a restraining hold, wrapping her fingers about the smaller woman’s wrists and wrenching them above her head.

“Maggie! Maggie, stop!” 

“No!” Maggie screeches, the sound echoing off the off the walls so anguished, Selina’s knees nearly buckle with the weight. “Let me go, letmego! Simon! Simon! No, no, no, no! I can’t, I don’t want to! Go!” 

Selina prepares to bury the needle into her sister’s neck, but then Maggie appears to go into shock. Her frame is wracked by violent tremors. Even simple coherence has fled, she is mumbling gibberish, babyish gurgles interrupted by wails and snippets of words that freeze Selina’s blood in her veins. “Mask, no no no—Mama? Help, it’s, it’s blood can’t no—Selina! I-I-I-- !” 

Thunderous footfalls sound just outside the door. Too late.

Panicked, Catwoman throws open the window, letting it slam shut just as a hoard of nurses and holy folk in nightclothes burst into the room. She watches from the roof as one of them kneels beside the bed, speaking soft words and stroking Maggie’s face over and over again. Medical equipment is brought into the room. Someone turns on the light. Selina watches just long enough to see the hysterical woman begin to calm, and then she bolts. 

Flying across the rooftops, not bothering to avoid detection or police presence, she heads blindly into the depths of the city. 

“Selina!” Dick shouts over the comm. “What are you doing? What’s happened?” 

“It’s not her,” she says maniacally into the void. She knows Dick can hear her. “You were wrong. It’s not her.”

“What?” he exclaims, alarmed. “What the hell are you talking about?” She cannot bring herself to answer him. Cannot explain it to someone who didn’t see, who never knew Maggie Kyle before. 

“Selina!” Dick calls again, and it sounds high-pitched, like feedback. “Selina, what happened? Is everyone alright?” She cannot respond, cannot see, merely shakes her head and keeps running. “Catwoman!” he shouts. She turns off her cowl’s comm link. 

She knows now. No matter what anyone might say, Selina Kyle knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that hers sister did not commit those murders. There’s simply not enough left of her. Even the psychotic demon-angel that had possessed her has gone. Perhaps the people at the church found some way to exorcise the cursed thing, or perhaps Maggie outlived her usefulness. Regardless, there is no trace of that evil to be found now. Nothing remains of the woman who was once her sister, not even that maniacal version built of anger and twisted half-remembrances that so desperately wished for her death. 

Nothing.

Just a shattered little girl in a dying body with no hope of ever learning again who she really is. 

Was. 

Selina stops where she is, gasping for air. Falling to her knees, she rests her head on the cold ground and cries. 

 

***** 

 

She becomes aware of Dick some time later, his lanky figure standing on a nearby rooftop unhurried. She cannot tell if he is talking to her and she does not turn the comm link back on. Not yet. 

Raising her tired eyes, she looks around at the place where she has landed. A metal rail is braced against her back, supporting her as the last of the sobs wrack her exhausted bones. The roof is steeply sloped, turning up into a dull point not five feet from her face. From the looks of their surroundings, she has lead Dick on a chase through Gotham’s lower East Side to the very edge of the city. She knows where they are. 

The water tower. 

Many years ago Selina learned that from this spot, and this spot only, one might catch a glimpse of something truly magical. A sea of tenement buildings borders the tower on three sides, but from the fourth the entire East Side is visible, its neon signs and snaking streets made beautiful by distance. Selina has always managed to find her way to this spot on her lowest nights to witness its spell. Its sacred view she has shared with only three people in her entire life. 

First was Holly, the night Selina begged her to finally stop hiding the needle marks and go get help. Holly had been afraid. But she did eventually manage to get clean. 

Then it was Dick, the day Jason Todd died. She remembers that as the last time she saw him while he still just came up to her shoulder. When she placed her arms around him and said nothing, he could lean into her body and let the tears fall where they would. He left the Teen Titans to become Nightwing that next year.

And finally, there was Bruce. 

Selina remembers sitting with him in the quiet moments before sunrise, watching the sky lighten to purple and then gold, the two of them saying nothing and needing nothing said. She remembers racing him to the top, twice for fun and once because it is the highest point in the area, and he was angry and finally getting winded. Once, they raced one another to Gotham PD just as the sun climbed over the horizon. And instead of sulking when she won, he took her face in his hands and kissed her gently, watching the color in her eyes spark and deepen in the golden, brightening day. 

This is their special place, somewhere they go when they need one another, when they need to be alone, when they don’t know what they need. Even Wayne Manor does not hold for them the peace that invites them to this rooftop in their best moments and their worst. 

Perhaps that is why Dick stays where he is, at a respectful distance, and does not try to approach her. 

He knows about sacred things. 

Selina stands and begins to walk slowly around to the far side, imagining the view. Her tears have dried. There are no sirens rending the air, so she can only assume that Maggie is stable. She has no idea how long she was running, or how long she has been sitting on this roof. Hours? Minutes? She will ask Dick in a moment, once she has gotten her bearings and her voice under control. She takes a deep, calming breath. Then she notices something. 

A small object is fluttering in the wind at the edge of the far railing. Curious, she makes her way over the corrugated surface of the roof, her head tilted to one side. There, taped to the cold metal is a piece of paper. She turns it over. 

Then she nearly faints. 

The colorful illustration stares up at her, tauntingly, daring her to scream. Selina’s mouth goes dry. Her muscles shake from the strain of keeping her body upright.

No, no. No, no, no. 

A joker card. A grinning clown, complete with fat, red drops of what can only be blood spattered across its surface. And a note. 

XOXO. Look up. 

With the glacial pace of the truly horrified, Catwoman raises her eyes to the cityscape before her. It is not drastically different. No buildings are missing, no explosions pierce the silence. But there it is. Spread out across miles of city, spray painted on billboards and the sides of towering apartments, lies a symbol of brilliant cruelty.

A perfect rictus grin. 

And it has been constructed in just such a way as to be visible from this exact spot.

Selina turns her bloodless face to look at Dick, her vision swimming. He cocks his head to the side, looking curiously up at her from his perch. He cannot see it. He would have to stand here, in Catwoman and Batman’s sacred place, to understand. 

As she reopens her comm link, it occurs to Selina that she has had about enough of feeling like she is about to throw up for one night.

“Houston,” she proclaims with a dryness born of utter exhaustion. “We have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, the true Joker Arc begins. Things are about to get very busy for our Bat Family. I hope you enjoyed it! Again, please let me know if I did alright with Maggie's mental illness. Tell me if you liked this chapter! Critiques welcome! Thank you for reading!


	13. Not Guilty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being right can be a terrible thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who waited for this update, Thank You for your patience! To anyone just discovering this story, thank you for reading! I have finally settled in my new place after having to move suddenly, and the internet has been installed! Hooray! I hope you continue to enjoy this story. As always, comments and critiques are more than welcome!

“Agapornis taranta,” Batman announces, still clad in full costume, sans mask, hours later. By all rights, he should be pacing a groove in the floor, but he is perfectly still, staring at the giant screen with an expression clear of any emotion. 

“Lovebird?” Tim asks incredulously from his place near the sprawling metal desk. Babs does not turn from her seat at the Cray computer as she corrects him.

“Black-winged lovebird.” She says it lowly, eyebrows furrowed in thought above rimless glasses that flash blue and white in the light of the Crays. 

“So it was lovebird blood on the Joker card,” Tim asks again, his head dipping to one side. In answer, Barbara brings up an enormous dimensional image of the card on the main screen. It looks very different now than it did when Selina held it, so recently, in her hands. The card itself has been processed for prints and DNA evidence. But the scanned image before them is the one that shows the results – no fingerprints aside from Selina’s own, no DNA aside from her own sweat, and the startling spatter of blood. Tiny blue equations run rampant in the upper corner, proof of the computer’s analysis and subsequent discovery of the source of the blood. 

Lovebird. Black-winged Lovebird. 

“There’s something else,” Tim continues, pointing toward the far right edge of the card. “Turn it over. There.” He steps closer, taking the control pad from Barbara and zooming in on a small section. “The second scan picked up instrument impressions here,” he scrolls over slightly. “And here. Babs, can you remap the model so it’s inverted? And scrub it to the highest resolution you can without distorting the image.”

“How did you catch this,” Babs asks skeptically, her fingers flying over the keys. 

“Read it in my thesis,” Tim responds with the ghost of a smirk. 

“Ha, ha,” Babs drawls. Then her eyes widen and she leans back in her chair. “Wow. Holy shit, Tim,” she says. “It worked.” 

“Letters,” Bruce mumbles, bringing a hand to his chin. “Z and O.” 

“A name?” Babs ventures, shrugging. “Zoey?” 

“I doubt it,” Dick says. It is the first time he has spoken since returning to the cave. No one has mentioned it, not even Barbara, but his anger is felt clearly in the room. He glances at Selina sitting stiffly at the table beside him. She very deliberately ignores him, electing instead to pour yet another envelope of photographs onto the cold metal tabletop. Mugshots, mostly, but some candid. Babs’s “short list” of potential American Beauty Killers. The faces of rapists, murderers, and sadists, some with Cat Scratches, some not, stare passively back at her. 

Gloating.

“Zoo,” Tim exclaims. “They keep tropical birds in the aviary at the Gotham Zoo in Trent Park.” 

“It’s possible.” Dick doesn’t sound convinced. “But lovebirds? They’re popular pets. Joker might’ve just had one of his cronies nab one from a pet store.”

“Not black-winged lovebirds,” Barbara disagrees, shaking her head. “They’re not popular among breeders. Not even many zoos keep them these days. And no pet stores in Gotham, certainly.” Bruce inclines his head toward Tim. 

“Does the Gotham aviary keep the breed?” he asks. 

“I’ll find out!” Practically bouncing, Tim heads in the direction of the elevator that will take him back through the clock entrance. Selina watches him go.

“Reminds me of you sometimes,” she murmurs to no one in particular. But beside her, Dick’s expression softens. 

“I know,” he sighs. 

Back at the front, Barbara is debating with Bruce. 

“So what then,” she argues. “The zoo? Joker’s planning an attack at the zoo? Is he trying to lead us to him?” 

“Not on purpose,” Batman replies, turning the altered card model this way and that. “We’re dealing with Joker, not the Riddler. He wouldn’t want to blow the punchline. This is a slip-up.”

“It’s not much of a lead,” Barbara notes, doubt in her voice. Bruce concedes her point.

“I know. But the graffiti didn’t reveal any clues. No DNA evidence on the tape either. This is all we’ve got to go on at the moment.” 

“Lovebirds,” Dick muses aloud. There is meaning in the word.

“Black-winged lovebirds,” Bruce adds grimly. The joke is there, hanging in the air between them.

“Where did you say the card was found.” Babs’s question is rhetorical and pointed. 

The East Side water tower. Batman and Catwoman’s special place. 

Bruce and Selina share a guarded look. 

“You know what this means,” Barbara continues, her voice low and sharp. “He’s targeting you. Both of you.” 

Dick jumps to their defense, shaking his head. 

“How would Joker even know they’re back together again? How would anyone? It’s been barely two days.” 

“Would the Joker care about that?” she retorts. “He’s insane. He once tried to copyright fish to make a profit – the world functions the way he wants it to. In his head, were Batman and Catwoman ever not together? Would it even make a difference?” She turns her chair around to face them, gesturing with her hands. “It’s common knowledge among the Gotham rogues that your ‘off’ periods are temporary at best. The rest of the underworld seems to assume the same, especially since Catwoman took over patrol of the East End.” Sensing no imminent rebuttal, Barbara licks her lips before charging ahead, a hunting dog catching the scent of blood. 

She’s right. And she knows it. 

“You two can pretend you’re discreet all you like,” she says. “It got old for the rest of us a long time ago. Anyone who tells you different is trying to get into your tights.” She casts Bruce a long, thin look. 

“How would Joker know about the water tower?” Selina’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. Babs sighs, for once almost sympathetic with the catburglar. 

“How does he know about anything,” she asks. “How did he discover Joker Gas? It’s a highly volatile nerve toxin – where the hell did he find it? How did he synthesize a mutagen that turns fish into self-portraits? What about the first year you were Batman and Catwoman, that Christmas – where did he even learn how to fly a damn plane?” She lets her head sink into her palm for a moment, weighed down by all the things she may never know about the man who destroyed her life. “Joker is insane, not stupid.” 

Nobody looks at her in the silence that follows her speech. Eventually, Babs nods and turns back to her place at the computer. 

“I’ll put an alert out to Gotham PD,” she says quietly. “Dad will probably want to set up a concentrated search of the area. We’ll have them keep their patrol tight around the zoo. And I’ll have someone from the JLA go pick up Magdalena. It’ll be discreet.” The last words are barely audible, but they fail to escape Selina. 

“It isn’t Maggie,” Selina snaps, wrenching her arm across the tabletop, sending a pile of black-and-white photographs scattering. Eyes hard, she scans the mess before her, examining every face, noting every feature. The mugshots stare blankly back at her, revealing nothing. She clenches her jaw, her scowl deepening. Dick reaches for her, comforting, pleading, exasperated. 

“Selina, this is ridiculous,” he says. “Look, I get it. I know this is hard. I know you don’t want it to be Maggie, but—.”

“It isn’t Maggie!” She cuts him off with a snarl. Dick throws his hands up, brings them down and pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off his building anger. 

“I know,” he says, taking a breath to keep his voice steady. “I know what it’s like to have your childhood fall apart. To have your family taken from you, and to be left asking why. But you can’t run away from the truth just because it’s hard.”

“Don’t play high and mighty with me,” Selina scoffs, her words dripping with disdain. “You want to pretend you’ve caught the American Beauty Killer, fine. But you haven’t solved anything, Boy Wonder. You’ve found a suitable madwoman to rest your case on, and stopped looking for the truth. That doesn’t make you right, and it damn well doesn’t make you a detective. And I’ll be damned if I let you send my sister to Arkham because it was convenient for you.” 

“I know,” Dick barks, and Bruce tenses at his tone, eyes narrowing. “But listen to me for a goddamn minute! Take a look at the evidence, Selina. She has motive, means – and she very well might have had opportunity.”

Selina’s hip cocks in a mockery of Catwoman’s classic stance, and when she speaks, her answering scorn is devastating. 

“Yes,” she chuckles. “I’m sure my comatose sister had plenty of time between diaper-changes to sneak out of her fifth-story window to commit grisly murders and sexual assaults in another city.” An ugly snarl mars Selina’s beautiful features as she speaks, eyes burning with something close to hatred for the boy she all but helped raise. 

“And Maggie just happened to slip past Batman’s patrol every night – thanks for that update, by the way, Bats,” she growls, breaking away for a moment to glare at Bruce. “Nice to know you’ve been keeping tabs on my sister for -- how long? While I spent my nights watching my back, wondering where she could possibly be?” 

Bruce merely deadens his expression in response. 

“Nice,” Selina breathes. Then she looks back at Dick. “Why don’t you reexamine your definition of ‘ridiculous’ before you go accusing my baby sister of murder in the first degree.” 

Dick blanches. In the silence, the sound of Barbara’s steady typing at the computer console stops. Very carefully, the former Robin closes his eyes and breathes. When he opens them, he considers Catwoman for a long moment, weighing his words. 

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he says finally, calmly, as though speaking to a frightened child. “You have every right to be angry, Selina – but you’re being irrational. You need to calm down. You’re no help to Maggie like this. Or to us, for that matter. I’m asking you as a friend, Selina, please. Take a step back.”

All the air goes out of the room.

Suddenly eerily calm, Selina tilts her head sideways into the vacuum, listening to the echoes of his words as they bounce around the cave, dissipating. Then she looks Richard Grayson full in the face. 

“You want me to ‘take a step back,’” she inquires, and Grayson swallows hard. Immediately realizing his mistake, he takes an involuntary step backward, assuming the barest suggestion of a defensive stance. “Why?” Selina purrs, stepping sinuously forward. “So you can waltz into Saint Agnes’s and cart my sister off to Arkham, without a trial, without evidence? You want to make a spectacle of her, so you can finally call the whole thing closed, and maybe get some sleep tonight.”

“That’s not--.” 

“Don’t you ever,” she murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and dangerous. “Tell me how I should feel about my family. You don’t know my family. You don’t know my sister. Don’t tell me how, or how not to help my sister. This is not. Your. Call.”

Selina leans forward, barely an inch, but the tension in the room skyrockets, becomes a ringing in their ears. Batman watches her advance very, very carefully. Barbara looks about ready to jump out of her chair. 

No one says a word. Every eye is riveted to Selina, waiting, but she doesn’t move. Her gaze never releases Richard’s own. Finally, softly, he speaks.

“I want to do the right thing, Selina,” he whispers. 

“Then stay out of my way.”

At that, Babs swivels away from the massive monitors, turning to face Selina directly. 

“According to reports,” the former Batgirl interrupts coldly. “During your last encounter with your sister, Magdalena Kyle exhibited superhuman abilities, including strength, agility, and mental manipulation. And that’s just what Nightwing could gather from the few moments he witnessed of your fight with her.” Babs whips an auburn curl from her shoulder. “It stands to reason that she may have more powers than even that. We don’t know. We don’t know what she’s capable of. And you don’t know if what you just saw in that room was the truth.”

“Barbara,” Batman murmurs a warning.

“She can tell me I’m wrong,” Babs snaps back. His mouth opens to retort, but Selina cuts him off. 

“You’re wrong,” she maintains, lowering her head. She sounds suddenly, very tired. “You’re wrong. Whatever it was that possessed Maggie is gone. She’s just… Maggie now. She’s just broken. She needs to be taken care of, not locked behind bars. She didn’t kill those women.” 

Barbara narrows her eyes, tapping an index finger against the armrest of her seat. Stubborn.

“You don’t know that,” she hums. “You don’t know what she might have done.”

“That thing had some kind of plan,” Selina explains, her brow darkening in memory. “It needed me dead. Or worse. If that demon – angel – whatever. If it was still inside her, it would have surfaced the second it saw me.” She closes her eyes, takes a breath. “And it didn’t.” 

Babs appears unmoved. 

“Plans change,” she says, shrugging. “Maybe it doesn’t need you anymore. Or maybe you don’t know her as well as you thought.”

This appears to loosen Selina’s joints, and she takes a silent step forward, the movement liquid, poisonous. She had hoped to avoid another altercation with Barbara, but after tonight, she’s not feeling especially pacifistic. Selina’s lips thin, her voice dropping even lower. 

“So the Catwoman look-alikes are, what? A coincidence? A manifestation of exactly how irrelevant I am to this case?” 

Babs’ answering laughter is harsh.

“This may come as news to you, Miss Kyle, but you are not, in fact, the focal point around which the rest of the universe rotates.”

“Babs,” Dick whispers, closing his eyes in something like pain. But his plea is barely audible over Batman’s roar of “Barbara!” He whirls to stare at her with the full force of his fury, blue eyes flashing beneath sharp, downturned brows. 

“No, you’re right, that’s not fair,” the redhead continues impetuously, focusing her anger now on Bruce. “Seeing as you were the one who gave her that delusion. Sorry, I forgot.” 

“Oracle,” Batman growls at her through his teeth. “A word. Outside. Now.” 

With a glib shrug, Barbara aims her motorized console chair toward the door to the training area, followed swiftly by a livid Bruce Wayne. When the door slides shut behind them, Dick turns to Selina again. 

“I’m so sorry,” he tries. But Selina simply waves his apology away with a hand, shaking her head. 

“It’s alright,” she says slowly. “It’s alright.” 

She goes back to staring at the pile of photographs spread out before her on the cold steel tabletop.

Dick watches the door. No sound leaks from the room beyond, and the cave grows oddly quiet. Tim is upstairs eating dinner as mandated by Alfred, who brooks no insubordination. No telling where Damian might be, although he almost certainly is not in bed, also mandated by Alfred. Cassie’s probably still out on patrol.

Selina startles him when she speaks. 

“Richard,” she says, and he catches his breath at the tone in her voice. Some current of emotion, like a lump in her throat, makes it sounds as though she is fighting to get the words out. “You’ve thought the American Beauty Killer might be Maggie for a while now. Haven’t you.” It is not a question, and Dick sees no reason to lie to her.

“Yes.” 

“You countered Bruce yesterday when he called the killer “he.” You thought it was a woman.” She turns to him, her lips hard set. “Why?” 

Surprised, Dick answers her honestly. 

“I think Bruce made a mistake,” he admits, shaking his head. “He was so certain that the American Beauty Killer was a stranger to you, that they only knew you from your Catwoman persona. He keeps bringing up that thing about the eyes…” 

“Never green,” Selina recalls. Dick’s mouth thins.

“Exactly.”

“But you,” Selina prompts. “You disagreed.” Dick closes his eyes a moment, nodding once. 

“I disagreed.” He looks her in the eye then, and she finds herself analyzing the vessels in his irises, like tiny lunar craters. So young, baby blue, and deadly serious. “I still disagree. The methods of torture, they’re specific – personal. This kind of savagery, it’s not common for random acts. This is someone close. Catwoman has made plenty of enemies, sure, but none of this caliber.” 

Selina nods grimly. 

“What you’re insinuating…” He matches her expression.

“I think this bastard knows Selina Kyle. Moreover, I think they know Selina Kyle is Catwoman.”

“Black Mask,” Selina counters, her face going grey. “He held a grudge against Catwoman and Selina Kyle for three years. He tortured my sister to insanity, and murdered her husband. Why didn’t he ever figure in your calculations?”

“Black Mask has been behind bars for four and a half years,” Dick reminds her. “Even if he could have been responsible for the first one or two murders, he never could have committed the recent ones. None of the stories were ever published until now. There’s no notoriety built up around the case, no point and no place for a copycat. If it’s not him now – and believe me, I’ve checked – then it wasn’t Sionis ten years ago either.” 

Selina brings a hand to her mouth, fighting the bile in her throat. 

“And after Sionis…” she whispers as the room spins.

“Maggie seemed the next most likely suspect,” Dick Grayson finishes. 

“It’s not Maggie,” Selina repeats obstinately, shaking her head against the gentle accusation in his voice. Dick’s heart constricts. His brows knit together, sympathetic despite his best efforts. 

“Selina…” he tries. But she is not listening. 

“But then who…” she is mumbling to herself, staring again at the pictures on the table in renewed frustration. 

The twenty most likely suspects – men who fit the timeline, who were charged or convicted of crimes against women between eight and ten years ago, released within five years. Thirteen of them bear the iconic Cat Scratches that mark them as early Catwoman conquests. Maybe five of them look familiar to Selina. One or two she might even remember their names. But the rest of them, who knows? They could be anyone. She has pored over the dossiers provided by Oracle for each of the twenty men, but still nothing is adding up. 

Then Selina has a terrible thought.

A cold worm of dread begins in the back of her mind, an ache behind her eyes, and slithers its way down her spine, to the pit of her stomach. 

“Dick,” she gulps, the sound almost lost in the vaulted cave. “Is Barbara finished assembling the secondary batch of suspects? The ‘long list?’” 

A little confused at the sudden turn, Dick nods his confirmation. 

“Yes,” he replies. 

“Where is it,” Selina croaks, her mouth gone dry as cotton. 

“Over here,” Dick says slowly, watching her expression with concern. “We agreed it was unlikely to help, and there were so many… she decided not to print them out. They’re just stored in the computer’s database. I can bring it up for you.” He walks over to the control panel, bringing it quickly to life. Within a minute, an extensive list of names, complete with photo attachments and criminal records, is sprawled across the three screens. Larger-than-life images of men’s faces, scowling, sneering, some bloodied and broken, glare down at them. 

“These are the cases that didn’t overlap,” Dick elaborates. “Sexual assaults, battery of women, murder – but bad timelines. And no scars, at least not yours.”

“What else?” 

“Facial scars,” he confirms. “Cat Scratches and other marks, but without the link to sexual or violent crime.” He hesitates, unsure. “The scar lead seemed so superficial…” he explains. “It might not even have been a Cat Scratch. And this kind of crime, it doesn’t just come from nowhere… Without the violent link, they just didn’t seem likely suspects.” 

“Bring up the nonviolent Cat Scratches.” Selina pushes the words through bloodless lips. 

“Ok.” 

Dick fiddles with the keys before handing the console over to Selina. 

“This is the right subfile,” he says. “You can scroll through the investigative reports to find what you’re looking for. Babs included everything, birth certificates, family histories, criminal records. Any document you need.” 

“I just need the photos.” Selina says, bringing up the endless line of photographs. She scrolls through each one, counting down the names as they descend in alphabetical order. 

Cargidan…

Gats…

Jeffries…

Selina closes her eyes, praying the nausea lower into her gut. She scrolls to the next letter. 

Keever, Charles. Arrested on charges of embezzlement. Really a thug working for a mob-front business. Had a low opinion of women.

Kipling, Sean. Charged with breaking and entering, released due to lack of incriminating evidence. The woman whose window he had snuck through had had night terrors for weeks afterward. 

One more… and then —. 

Kline, Robert, the description reads. Charged with tax fraud and felony tax evasion. Acquitted. All assets seized. Released on his own recognizance. No further information.

Selina stares up at the sharp-featured face, the teeth gritted in a smile to hide a cold fury; those dark, almost black eyes. Selina’s body floats up, up… then sinks, like tar, into the floor. Growing lower and smaller, colder, the photograph growing larger, until all she can see is that hideous, handsome face, taller than she is, larger than life. And four long, jagged claw marks, still angry and bleeding. Drawn from the left temple, across both high cheekbones, through those thin, pinched lips, to the chin torn nearly open. Rudimentary stitches run the length. 

Presumed dead, reads a note in the corner. 

“So that’s it,” Selina whispers. She blinks rapidly, tasting teardrops on her lips. “God, I prayed… I prayed he was dead.”


	14. Saints and Sinners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the monsters from Selina's childhood reveal their faces, there is nothing left to do but stand and fight them. She cannot outrun her demons any longer - and now she must tell Bruce the secret she has kept hidden for fifteen years in the darkest corner of her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that there are fans who dislike the idea that Selina Kyle was at one time a prostitute. However, this is my story and I must write the characters as I understand them. A large part of why I am so enamored of Selina Kyle is because of how she has managed to overcome so many horrors in her life. She is who she is not because of what happened to her, but despite it. And I am in awe of any character who could go through such hell, and still strive for a thing like love. 
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING** Mentions of sexual and physical abuse. I do NOT go into detail or description of the events themselves. However, if you find descriptions of emotional/physical REACTIONS to such abuse upsetting, you may prefer to skip this chapter. If you find the coming installments confusing without the context provided in this chapter, please feel free to message me, and I will answer any questions in as sparing or as much detail as you need.
> 
> Clarification Note: As you may have noticed, I have taken some liberties with several characters' backstories, including and most notably Selina Kyle's. I have chosen the aspects I like best from her various canon incarnations, and invented my own where I deemed necessary. And while I did not originally intend for the American Beauty Killer to be who they are now, I stand behind my decision. I spoke with a licensed social worker and psychologist about Selina Kyle and the Killer, and together we built a backstory that we believe would support the creation of their personalities as they are today.
> 
> I do hope you enjoy! Comments and critiques welcome - let me know if I dealt with this subject matter with the necessary care, and if you enjoyed this latest installment.

“Kid,” Selina breathes, her body utterly motionless. “Go get your father.”

Richard Grayson feels suddenly very small. 

“Are you alright?” he murmurs to the woman whom he has never called ‘mother.’ “You’re… crying.”

“I’ll be just fine, Dick,” Selina whispers. But even that sound shakes. She feels the tears running roughshod over her cheeks, but hasn’t the energy to wipe them away. They burn in the chill of the cave. 

At a loss, Dick backs away from her and heads for the door. Selina minimizes the grisly photograph on the screen as Dick calls Bruce back into the main cave. She sees him take his father’s place with Barbara Gordon in the adjoining training room. The door shuts. 

And then it is just Bruce and Selina.

“I’m sorry about Barbara,” Bruce begins, misinterpreting her stricken expression. “She had no right--.”

“Bruce,” Selina says, raising a hand to cut him off. “I have to tell you something.”

She looks exhausted, and the depth of emotion in that one line has him immediately on high alert. 

“What’s wrong?” 

For a moment, she simply shakes her head. He comes closer, but she stops him. 

“Selina?” His posture has shifted to the defensive. He leans forward, his muscles tensed, as though ready to throw himself bodily in front of her. As though the danger is coming from outside, and not in. 

“I have to tell you something,” Selina whispers, ignoring his question. “But first, I need you to be honest with me.” She looks him dead in the eye, arresting his attention utterly. “How much do you know about me?” He blinks, startled. 

“What?”

“How much,” she repeats. 

There is a long pause. They have never in all the years they have been Batman and Catwoman, never asked that question of one another. It has always been a mutual understanding between the two of them, an unspoken rule. Let secrets remain secrets, even if you know the truth. They know too much about one another regardless, so why not pretend? If it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie, why wake them? 

If Selina is asking this question, then there is something very wrong. The thought makes Bruce's blood run cold. 

But she has asked the question, has broken the spell. She wants the truth. And there is no good way to answer her. 

Bruce breathes evenly, trying very hard to keep the panic out of his movements. He has no idea why she would suddenly be asking this question, or how she will react to the truth. They have never even discussed the hypotheticals of a situation like this. It could mean anything. 

It could be a trap. 

But it is Selina asking. And she has a right to know. The silence has stretched too long, he has to make a choice. Has to answer her. 

Truth? Lie? Obfuscate? He tamps his emotions down through sheer force of will, clenching his hands, his jaw. Then, wordlessly, Bruce moves to the keypad and types in a code. After presenting his palm and retina to be scanned, he takes a step back to face Selina. Anxious, maybe. Watching for her reaction.

“Override class A6, Kyle. Code ‘Helen’ -- Authorize,” he enunciates, and the three massive screens light up with a sudden flood of information. Hundreds of files, one after another, fill every inch of space, arranging and rearranging into some final semblance of order. 

There are photographs from every stage of her life, some that even Selina has never seen, splayed across the tops of each screen, maybe ordered by year. Selina stares passively at a couple of mugshots, her face too young, glaring up at the world with wounded eyes. 

She inches closer to the keyboard, scanning the assembled files, looking for something. 

The oldest documents are handwritten affairs, going all the way back to their first encounter. He even included his notes from when the Catwoman was still just an unknown burglar responsible for a string of high-profile robberies on the wealthy side of town. ‘No clues. No leads.’ Written in tiny, immaculate letters on the thinnest lined paper she’s ever seen. 

Bruce never once looks at the screen. His eyes remain fastened to Selina, watching her with a distress so acute it looks painful. 

Waiting. 

Finally, Selina steps back. 

“Is this everything,” she asks flatly. Bruce nods. 

“Everything.” His voice is gruff and strange. It occurs to Selina that he must be fighting every instinct he has in order to let her see this information. 

She knows that authorization sequence was the highest level of restriction offered by this system. Palm print, iris scan, DNA match, and voice authorization requiring an exact match of speech pattern and stress. All that, plus a top-secret string of code is what it takes to get to every bit of information the Batman has ever collected on Selina Kyle. If she wasn’t about to pass out, she might’ve been flattered. 

But even Batman’s hoard of data is incomplete. Pulling a shallow breath in through her nose, Selina faces Bruce directly. 

“You know about the House on Fourteenth Street,” she states. It is not a question.

Bruce’s eyes widen slightly, his heartbeat quickening. He forces his expression into a mask of steel, feeling his chest constrict. 

“I know about the House on Fourteenth Street,” he confirms grimly. 

“How much do you know about the House on Fourteenth Street?” 

Bruce looks as though he’s been shot in the chest. His heart stutters. His lips part for a moment of shock before closing again, tightly, his jaw working.

There is an uncomfortable pause, during which Selina simply stares at him. Patient. Bruce shakes his head, his eyes closing.

"Why?" He says it quietly, almost a plea. Selina swallows down the choke in her throat. 

"Because I need to know," is all she says. Bruce blinks slowly, feeling dread pool in the pit of his stomach, warm and sick. He nods. Inhaling a shaking breath, he searches her eyes one last time. Then, finally, he speaks. 

“You were twelve,” he says, his voice low and harsh, the words quick. Clinical. “Maybe thirteen. You were supposed to be at the All Saints’ Orphanage. You arrived there with your sister when you were eleven. She was adopted within a year. You weren't. The orphanage had you listed in their tax documents for four years until your first arrest at fifteen. But I checked. You were on the streets by age twelve, thirteen at the most. Within a year of your arrival, the staff at the orphanage had stopped counting you in roll call. And there were no more purchases of food or clothing made on your behalf." Bruce makes a low, angry sound in the back of his throat. “No official records exist for the next three years of your life,” he says. “Until your first arrest.”

They find themselves considering her earliest mugshot, a grainy black-and-white. The girl in the photograph has none of the grace that Catwoman wields like a weapon or Selina Kyle wears like a second skin. Long, dark curls hang limply about her too-sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. That elegant, sloping nose looks oddly out of place above those pale, chapped lips, and her eyes are frighteningly dull beneath their heavy lids. 

“The police record says you were eighteen,” Bruce murmurs, almost to himself. “But it’s wrong. That was a lie you were taught to give police if you were ever caught. When Leslie saw you in the hospital, after the processing cop broke your arm, she was appalled. She recognized you from the orphanage. She knew how old you really were. And she was able to get you released into her custody.” 

“Never quite figured out how she managed that,” Selina remarks, too light. There is a sharp pang in her chest at the memory of Leslie Thompkins's horrified face that night.

“Leslie said she had tried to be a friend to you,” Bruce continues. “When you were still at the orphanage - while she was the resident physician there. But you rebuffed her. And there were just so many children, and they all needed her help…” He exhales heavily. “She said letting what happened… happen to you… that it was her greatest regret in life.” 

Selina examines the pattern that centuries of water erosion have made in the blue-black stones beneath her feet. She should have assumed he would know about Leslie. When the ancient patterns begin to blur and disappear, Selina looks up, and Bruce watches as the tears stand in her eyes. 

“I know.” Selina whispers thickly. “She said that.”

Leslie Thompkins, another one of the many strange links between Selina Kyle and Bruce Wayne.

Dr. Thompkins went to medical school with Bruce’s father, Thomas Wayne. Later, she would work alongside him at their own practice, providing vital assistance to the poverty-stricken residents of the East End. Leslie spent many nights at Wayne Manor in Bruce’s infancy, cuddling and playing with him in her kind, serious way. As he grew older, he would think of her as a grandmotherly figure, an important link to his past and his humanity. 

But even in the days when Bruce’s parents lived their illustrious lives, the East End was a messy, violent place. Home to towering mob empires and a thriving red-light district, it was all Leslie and the Wayne fortune could do to keep the place up and running. When Martha and Thomas were murdered, it became too much for Dr. Thompkins. So to compensate, she found the All Saints’ Orphanage. She wanted to be a caregiver for the children most hurt by this city, the chewed up and the spit out, despised and displaced – many of whom she knew would never find homes. 

Instead, she found Selina. 

Leslie hadn’t thought much of Selina Kyle on their first meeting – an angry, stubborn little girl, grown up too fast, too hurt and too smart to go quietly back into innocence. Selina visited the infirmary so often, Leslie eventually tried to bring it up with management – but her fears were brushed off. “That one is beyond help,” the headmistress said. “A troublemaker.” When the pretty little girl disappeared, Leslie seemed to be the only one who noticed – “placed in another home,” she was told. “Good riddance.” 

Leslie thought no more of it until she saw Selina again that fateful, awful night in the hospital, handcuffed to the gurney with a cast on her arm. The officer guarding Selina said she was eighteen. That she had been picked up in a raid at a brothel down on Fourteenth Street.

A prostitute. None of Leslie's concern. 

“You were fifteen,” Bruce continues softly. “Not eighteen.” 

“But I was a prostitute,” Selina chuckles bleakly. 

“You weren’t…” Bruce strains, grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut. “You were a child.” Misery makes the last word catch in his throat.

“True,” she agrees, tilting her head to one side with a smile borne of infinite sorrow. “At first. I got used to it.” 

“Selina…” 

“So you know,” she says, louder this time. “You know where I was. What I was.” She braces herself with a hand on the edge of the computer console. Licks her lips. Swallows. “What do you know about a man named Robert Kline?” 

Bruce blinks spastically for a moment, lost for words. 

“The politician,” he asks, reaching toward her in a plea for clarity. Selina barely breathes. “He made it all the way to Senator, then went down for tax fraud,” Bruce rattles off. “Pulled every string he had in Washington to get himself out of jail time. Ended up penniless and divorced. You were, what, nineteen? And I was twenty-two?” 

Then something dawns on him. 

“Nineteen,” he says slowly. “Your first year as Catwoman. My first year in the suit.”

Selina nods, steps closer to the console and throws the image of Kline’s face over the screen. At the sight of the Cat Scratches, Batman goes white. 

“I never knew why…” he whispers. “The scratches. Sometimes you seemed to have no reason. I couldn’t find the pattern…” Selina thinks about all those people bearing Cat Scratches convicted of misdemeanors, their more sinister crimes never acknowledged, never paid for. 

“There was a pattern,” she says evenly. 

“What happened,” Bruce asks suddenly, appall and desperation plain on his face. “What can I do?” 

“Nothing for me,” she replies, smiling slightly, sadly at him. “But I’ll tell you what happened.”

He looks at his hands, at the floor, at her. Finding nothing to help him weather the coming storm, he lets them drop back to his sides, assuming a stiff parade rest. 

Selina takes a deep breath.

“Robert Kline was the biggest donor All Saints’ orphanage ever had," she says. "While I lived there, he was basically keeping the place afloat. The donations were always anonymous. Although he sure as hell claimed them on his tax returns.”

An odd look comes over Bruce’s features. 

“You were the one who exposed him to the IRS,” he realizes. “I always assumed it was his wife.”

“If I couldn’t bring the bastard down for rape, I was damn well going to get him for something.” 

Bruce blanches at her too-casual use of that word. He’s used it himself enough times, describing crime scenes, cold cases… but never to describe Selina. His eyes find their way, against his will, back to the photograph of Robert Kline still damnably plastered on the screen. Bruce feels a vile hatred begin to bubble up from the core of his being. It tastes of blood and ash. Of violence. 

“He was there all the time,” Selina continues, looking into the distance to keep from seeing his face. “I always sort of assumed he and the headmistress were screwing. But maybe not.” Revulsion twists her lips into a snarl. “She wasn’t exactly his ‘type.’” 

Selina looks up to the ceiling, begging for the strength. She glances at Bruce, swallows, flinches away. 

Leslie knew. Despite everything, or perhaps because of it, Dr. Thompkins knew exactly what had happened to Selina the second she saw her in that hospital room. She just didn’t know who. And although the woman begged Selina for years, just years, to let her in, to let her help, to let them punish the bastard together… Selina never gave her the name. 

He was a politician, after all – a Senator. The police hadn’t believed her when she told them. Why would anyone listen to Leslie years later, an unrelated third party with no evidence and a former child prostitute in tow? She’d get laughed right out of her medical license. 

“It happened at the orphanage,” Selina whispers, her voice oddly detached. “Kline raped me. No one believed me. So I ran.” She takes an excruciating breath. “The headmistress called me a liar. When I told the police, they laughed. The officer I spoke to actually called Kline to come pick me up from the precinct. So I ran.

“But I wasn’t on the streets two months before someone from the brothel picked me up – I was desperate, I didn’t know what to do. They gave me food, a bed. At first I thought it was some kind of boarding house… then Kline walked in the door.” A hysterical sound escapes her, not quite laughter, and not quite a scream. Her hand flies to her mouth to silence it.

“Selina…” Bruce murmurs, reaching for her. The pain in her eyes is unbearable to watch.

Selina stops him with a look, a warning in the set of her jaw. 

She has to get the words out. Now. 

“I don’t know,” she says quickly, shaking her head, her voice sounding too light for the weight of the memory. “I don’t know if he owned the place, or if he just made a habit out of donating to establishments with kept children. I don’t even know if he knew I was there, or if it was all just a happy accident for him.” The words taste like sewage on her teeth, but though the thought has her panicky, it all makes perfect sense. 

The House on Fourteenth Street was one of the biggest trafficking hubs in the state, for a while. The whole block had the smell of it, children in high heels standing on street corners when they should have been in school. She wouldn’t be surprised if Kline was a regular customer even before she showed up on the menu.

Selina’s stomach twists. She can barely hear her next words over the pounding in her ears.

“Kline walked in the day after I was found. And his eyes just… Lit up.” The seams of her catsuit seem suddenly alive, wriggling against her skin like a swarm of poisonous insects. She shakes her head in a desperate attempt to clear it. “He didn’t try to take me back to the orphanage. I think he liked me better there, where he could get to me. He wouldn’t even have to pretend.” She barks a laugh, harsh. Making light of the horror in her heart. The sharp sound carries to the back of the cave, like a thunderclap. 

Bruce looks ill, but does not interrupt. 

“Kline came by all the time after that. For two years, they wouldn’t even let me out of that room – I tried to escape twice, but I learned…” A heavy beat. “… Not to.” Selina blinks slowly. “Then Kline graduated from bigshot Gotham lawyer to State Senator, and suddenly he wasn’t around anymore. They put me on the street, and by that time…” She opens her hands in a small, helpless gesture. “I just… didn’t run. Where could I go? The cops would send me right back to the orphanage. And if the pimps caught me…” She shudders. “So I just… stayed. Until that night the GCPD raided the brothel.” Her tone shifts, becomes angrier. 

The parts that aren’t about her are so much easier to put into words. 

“There was a new mayor in town who’d campaigned on the promise to ‘clean up’ the city. Especially the red light district. But it was all for show. The bastard didn’t care about the girls, didn’t give a damn about the people actually living down there in the slums – he just wanted the real estate. So he could make nice with the mob, give them a place to launder his money. He fucked us.” Selina snorts. “What was new?”

“Mayor Hill,” Bruce mumbles, putting the pieces together. Selina nods.

"Yes." 

“But…" Bruce asks with gentle confusion. "When did you give Kline the Cat Scratch? Did you seek him out? For revenge?”

“He recognized me,” Selina whispers, her eyes growing alarmingly wide. Her body goes absolutely still. “He was the only one who ever did. Once in a while, there would be a face in a crowd. I would see it and I’d know – I’d remember. But they wouldn't. No one ever recognized me from… from before. From Fourteenth Street. Their eyes would always pass over me, just another face in the crowd…” Selina remembers them, those times she would curl in on herself in the middle of the street, or run into the nearest dark corner to wait out the waves of nausea and panic. She wraps her arms around herself.

“It was my first year as Catwoman,” she continues, now visibly shaking. 

“Selina,” Bruce tries. “Stop.” 

“No!” She shouts, making them both jump. He can’t bear to tell her, but it scares him deeply. “Let me finish. Please.” When he advances no further resistance, she returns to her narrative, speaking quickly. “It was just before you and I got together – not as Catwoman and Batman, but as Selina and Bruce. For the first time,” she says, forcing a lightness of tone she does not feel. If she can just get through this next bit… “That Christmas. At the Wayne Enterprises ball. I was just walking through the ballroom, and suddenly he was there. He saw me. And his eyes just… Lit up!” A shudder wracks Selina's frame. “He smiled, and it was like I was twelve years old again, and he was climbing on top of me, holding me down…” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. I just froze. And then he touched me. He put his hand on my arm and told me he missed me. That he missed ‘us.’ He hoped he would see me again soon…” Selina has to stop, nearly falling to her knees as the urge to vomit overtakes her. Bruce grabs her arms, supporting her weight until she brushes him off, needing the room, needing to breathe. She shakes her head over and over, left to right, disbelieving. 

“I panicked,” she states simply. “I couldn’t let him get to me. Couldn’t let him touch me again. Not ever. I put on the catsuit that night, looked him up, broke into his house. I found the safe behind a shitty painting in their bedroom. There was nothing in it, nothing about the brothel, the orphanage, nothing!” She snarls, enjoying the hideousness of her rage. Let the outside finally mirror the in. Bruce flinches.

“But I had everything else. Financial records, tax returns, you name it. I didn’t pick, I took all of it. And then I turned around, and I saw his face. He was sleeping. Peaceful. And why the fuck should he sleep when I hadn’t slept through the night in eight years?” Selina bares her teeth. “I just wanted to take back what he stole from me – all those years, the pain. My childhood. I wanted to kill him,” she breathes. Bruce’s own breathing comes faster now, alarmed at her sudden change in demeanor. “Just one little scratch. To mark him for what he’d done.

“I scratched him,” she says, her voice going dead and flat. “I don’t know what I was expecting. He woke up. Screaming. His wife woke up too. I didn’t even look at her. I just… I got so scared.” Whispering now. “Kline looked up… he saw me. He saw me and he knew. But I thought he recognized Catwoman. I’d been in the papers by then, there were pictures… But I was wrong. Of course I was wrong. Of course he knew it was me, he always knew. He always found me. I don’t know how, or why… And now…

“I know it’s him, Bruce,” she hiccoughs. “Robert Kline is the American Beauty Killer. I know he is. 

"And I should have known all along!" She bends double suddenly, self-hatred in the curve of her spine, in the press of her nails against her skin. "I can’t understand why I didn’t see it…” 

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers to her. “It’s ok, Selina. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

“But I should have,” she cries, throwing her head back. 

“You couldn’t have known,” he repeats gently. “Please, Selina. You couldn’t have known.”

“Four women are dead,” Selina replies dully. “At least. Kline raped and murdered four women because of me. Because he couldn’t get to me.” She shakes her head, just slightly. “That’s not what I wanted.” 

“Of course not,” Bruce exclaims passionately, reaching out to take her in his arms. “Selina, you cannot blame yourself. This was never about you.”

“This was always about me!” She pushes him away, fixing him with a murderous glare. Agonized, she lets everything out on one breath:

“If it wasn’t for me, all those innocent women might still be alive. My sister never would have been tortured by Black Mask – her husband is dead because of me! My mother and father are dead because of me! If not for me, they could be happy and alive and Maggie would have grown up with parents like a normal girl. She’d be sane and happy and living her life far away from this godforsaken city, but instead those women are dead, my mother killed herself because I was born, and my father became a drunk who beat the shit out of us every night.

“So let’s not sugarcoat this, Bruce, I’m well aware that the world would be a damn sight better if I wasn’t in it!” 

In the silence that follows, only their breathing is audible. Selina’s comes in heavy gasps, but Bruce appears to barely be breathing at all. 

“Why would you think that about your mother?” He asks, heartbroken. Selina’s shoulders slump. She sounds so tired when she responds,

“Carmine Falcone raped my mother when she was seventeen. I am the products of that rape. My mother killed herself when I was five. You do the math.” 

“Selina…” Bruce breathes, wanting, needing for her to understand. “None of that was your fault.” 

“I know,” Selina replies hopelessly, shrugging slightly. Her shoulders ache. “Doesn’t make much of a difference, does it?” 

He stares at her. With tired eyes that prick and burn, Selina meets his gaze and holds it. Her face hurts. All her joints feel swollen and her muscles scream for sleep. The pounding in her head feels like a hammer upside her skull, a throbbing pressure in her ears. She feels it in the tips of her fingers. Her jaw is locked so tightly she can hear the bones grind. As her muscles begin to unwind, it becomes a battle to stay on her feet while her body is overtaken by shivers.

Selina looks away from him. She brings her arms up to wrap themselves around herself, holding still. She wants a shower, something to wash away all the memories she can’t forget. She wants to tear the catsuit from her body and burn it. It is too tight, cutting off her blood circulation, restricting her air.

Her skin crawls. 

She wants a bath. She wants to be submerged in water deep enough that she doesn’t have to look at her body. 

With a desire borne from the very marrow of her bones, Selina longs for sleep. 

“I’m going to bed,” she murmurs finally, to no one in particular. Then she turns away. 

Bruce watches her go. In the emptiness, he stares after her for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to make it clear, just for the record, that I do not personally believe that prostitution, when all parties are fully informed, consenting adults taking all the necessary precautions, is an inherently negative thing. I do not wish it to be the message of this story that prostitution and prostitutes are bad in and of themselves. Indeed, the characters are merely dealing with the ramifications of society's generally negative view of sex work and sex workers. But this story does specifically deal with human trafficking, which makes a business off of selling women, girls, men, and boys into the sex industry against their will - and that is inherently evil.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, comments and critiques are welcome!


End file.
